Afters
by oleanderhoney
Summary: AU in which John Watson is Jane Watson! On going little bits of domestic fluff interspersed through out the Colour of Light 'verse. Fluff to rot your teeth, because lets face it, domestic fluffiness is sweet like desserts. Chapter titles will correspond to Chapters in other parts of the main arc. Eventual friends to lovers.
1. Chinese

_**Set directly after the events that transpired at Roland-Kerr Further Education College...**_

_****_**Refers to the Chapter 'Frailty of Genius' in The Colour of Light Part II**

* * *

**Chinese**

"You're quite sure this is the best Chinese in Westminster?" Jane asks suspiciously as she eyes the dingy hole-in-the wall that was the Lucky Cat. The glowing sign above the place only had the 'L-C-K' and half of the 'U' lit up, and Jane purses her lips in a half smile as she reads it out loud: "'Lick'? Appetising."

"Oh just trust me," Sherlock rumbles. "You can always tell a good Chinese by the bottom third of the door handle," he says and actually pulls out his ruddy pocket magnifier and inspects said handle from top to bottom. Jane leans over, curious.

"Really? How, then?" she asks knowing he's probably just bursting to tell her. Show off.

Sherlock snaps the magnifier closed and turns to her smugly. "There is more wear-and-tear on the bottom of the handle where more hands have been in contact with it. It's shinier than the rest belying the faint oils our fingertips naturally leave behind. Because it's the bottom two-thirds it speaks of a specific clientele: people who are of the Chinese persuasion. The food's authentic enough to warrant a steady stream of said customers and their families."

"So you know this because…of the stereotype that Asians are short?" Jane asks. "That's a bit rude. I'm short, and so are loads of other people."

"No you're correct. The stereotype is a misconception. The average height of a man living in China is five-foot-eight, only half an inch to an inch shorter —give or take — than a man living in the UK. Not much of a difference to make any noticeable change in door handle polish wouldn't you say? No I am referring to short people of a different variety," he smirks, clearly drawing it out.

"Go on then, Mr. Wikipedia, enlighten me."

"Children," he replies, and Jane cocks her head. "It's about honour. The Chinese believe in having the utmost respect for their elders, and given this is a family establishment, children frequent the restaurant often, holding the door open for their parents and grandparents as they enter."

"Well then that can only mean one thing," she remarks, her stomach growling.

"What's that?" Sherlock asks.

"Damn good dim sum," she says and grabs the handle leaving Sherlock to chuckle behind her.

-oOo-

Sherlock didn't know what he expected. He'd assumed that after the adrenaline faded Jane and he would go back to the awkward acquaintanceship and uneven footing on which they started out. He was expecting stilted conversation and sidelong glances, and if he was honest, he was expecting her to walk away because, really, she just shot a man in cold blood for him. But neither of those things happened.

Instead, what happened was easy conversation, and anecdotes of the past of all things. Like normal people. Which he was shocked to find he didn't mind at all. There was nothing about Jane that bored him, and he listened with rapt attention when she talked about her military service in Afghanistan, her sister and their adventures when they were girls, and her insufferable mother. The tone was light and the company effortless. She does not mention getting shot or her father, and for once, Sherlock doesn't press the matter.

When their food comes, Sherlock eats with gusto, but he peeks up at Jane every so often from under his lashes. Despite knowing how hungry she must be, she doesn't eat as fast, and ends up pushing the pieces of her ginger duck around the plate more often than not. She nibbles on some cabbage, and he pauses half way to bringing a dumpling to his mouth. He huffs and rolls his eyes, setting his chopsticks down, and without saying anything he switches their plates.

"I told you you should have let me order for you," Sherlock grumbles in mock irritation.

"Okay so maybe the duck was a bit ambitious," Jane says digging into the orange chicken he just set in front of her. "I'm not good when my dinner still has its face attached."

"Then why did you order it?"

"Didn't want to be predictable," she says.

"Ah. Well how is it?"

"Delicious," she says around a mouthful of food. "I can see why you like it."

"Oh. I don't," he says with a quirk of his lips.

"What?"

"I prefer the duck. Face and all," he winks.

"You ordered the orange chicken just to trade with me later?"

"Yes. And because I knew it would be your favourite. I'll be quite surprised if you ever order anything else from now on," he says licking some sauce off the pad of his thumb.

The look on her face told him he was probably right, and she narrows her eyes. "Do you ever get tired of showing off?"

"Nope," he says popping the p with a smack of his lips.

"Berk."

"Bint."

She laughs, and throws a fortune cookie at his head which he catches deftly. "Go on then, guess my fortune if you're so clever." And Sherlock rips open the package eagerly.

"Be prepared to be amazed."

…

After dinner they head back to Baker Street and up the steps as quietly as they can so as not to disturb Mrs. Hudson. They walk in and hang up their respective coats, and as if they had been living there for years, Jane says:

"Tea?"

To which Sherlock grunts 'yes please' and flops down onto the sofa to think. He presses his palms together and touches the tips of his fingers to the bottom of his chin. After the kettle's boiled Jane comes over and sinks into the space next to him, and he idly takes the steaming mug from her. He takes a sip before he realises it's milky and sweet perfectly the way he likes it.

"How did you know?"

"I'm not the only one who's predictable on occasion, Sherlock Holmes," she says and props her legs up on the coffee table, ankles crossed. He grunts again, still not used to being surprised so regularly by someone so ordinary. (No…not ordinary at all. Something undefined.) "So, Moriarty?" she asks.

"Mm," he says staring off into the distance.

"Who is he?"

"No idea. The possibilities are vast. He's some sort of specialist; a consulting criminal. From what I gather, people go to him for help, big or small as long has he has something to gain from the investment. The real question is: how far does this 'Moriarty's' reach extend? I'm sure he would already be on Mycroft's radar if he weren't such a shadow. No doubt he would have contacted me by now for my help. Whatever or whoever Moriarty is, it's big, and I've apparently caught his eye," Sherlock says and sips his tea which was rapidly cooling. He's still deep in thought when he registers Jane sigh gently beside him.

He looks over and finds her nestled into the couch cushions fast asleep with her cup of tea (cold by now, probably) resting in her lap. He takes it from her loose fingers before it tips over and puts both mugs in the sink.

"Jane?" he says quietly and nudges her shoulder.

"Mm?" she hums, her eyes still closed. "Oh. I should get a cab. S'late."

"Yes it is," Sherlock says and sits on the coffee table. He takes her left foot and plucks apart the laces of her shoe.

"I'll come over firs' thing tomorrow. With my stuff," she murmurs.

"Good idea." He sets to work on the right one.

"Might need a key…"

"Of course. I'll have one made directly," he says and tucks her shoes next to the sofa. "Lay down now."

Jane mumbles and sighs once more, but only shimmies down further into the cushions. Sherlock rolls his eyes, and gently guides her to lie on her side, one hand cupping the side of her face and the other tucking her legs so she fit comfortably between the two armrests. She was really rather small and it was only in her vulnerable relaxed state that Sherlock realised this. Jane had always presented herself as a hard commanding presence that instantly filled any room regardless of if she had anything to say or not.

It was impressive, the list of things he managed to overlook when it all boiled down.

Without anything more, he goes into the hall and grabs a faded afghan of Mrs. Hudson's from the cupboard, and spreads it over her sleeping form. With that, he plops into his armchair, settling in for a long night of numerous _possibilities_.

* * *

**AN: Hopefully this will work. Heh. Thanks to every one who's read my work, and a tremendous thanks to those who've commented. This will be pretty ongoing, and I am terribly sorry I can't seem to link the key words directly. This is also on AO3 (under the same username) where the html is a lot more forgiving than ff. Thanks!**


	2. Experiment

**AN: Sometime later...neither here nor there...An experiment goes horribly awry.**

**In conjunction with the chapter 'One of Those Days' from the story The Colour of Light Part III**

* * *

**Experiment**

_Some time later…_

"Sherlock?" Jane says as she stares into the fridge.

"What?" he snaps in the middle of measuring out a few units of nitric acid to his flask of hydrofluoric acid. The measurements needed to be exact or —

"I think the milk's gone off," she says crinkling her nose when she sniffs it.

He huffs a breath out of his nose and sets the beaker down. He lifts up his goggles for a second to irritably pinch the bridge of his nose, before putting them back into place. "It's fine." He tweaks the Bunsen burner under his concoction to high.

"No. It's definitely gone off. I'm throwing it out," she says.

"Here let me check," Sherlock says and holds out his hand. She shrugs and gives it to him, and he shakes it and pops open the carton, sniffing delicately. "Hm. It's only at the beginning stages of fermentation. We'll keep it a bit longer."

"Sherlock. _We_ are not keeping a carton of spoilt milk for me to accidentally poison myself with. Now give it here, I'm tossing it," she says and makes to grab it back. He holds it away.

"Jane, you won't _poison_ yourself with bad milk. Besides I can always test the growth and fermentation of yeast when —" Jane manages to go for it again, and this time her hand wraps around the carton just above Sherlock's. She tugs, but he doesn't relent. "Really? This is childish, now let go." He tugs back.

"You let go. And you're calling me childish?" she says incredulously, and her eyes narrow in a glare. She pulls, but he pulls back almost instantly.

"You are not throwing it out!" he snarls. "God I'll put a label on it if you're so concerned." His grip tightens, and he steadily pulls to his side of the table attempting to disadvantage her due to her height.

"You never label anything," she says baring her teeth, and rises on tip toes leaning forward. They glare at each other in a stalemate, their fingers squeezing the carton ever tighter when suddenly the bottom gives way and the contents go spilling out and directly into the flask that it was hovering over.

Sherlock barely had time to realise the horror of the situation before the lactic acid in the milk reacted to the other acids in the flask causing it to explode with a gurgling bang that was somewhat reminiscent of a champagne bottle.

"What the bleeding _hell?_" Jane yells, and staggers back her arm flinging over he eyes just as Sherlock reels back against the worktop. He could feel the sting of the acids working into his scalp and his face as the concoction seeped into his pores. He flings off his goggles and suit jacket and wipes the dry sleeve of his shirt over his face.

"Did any get in your eyes?" Sherlock yells and runs around the table just as Jane slips on a wet patch and goes down to the floor.

"Fuck. Ow. Yes I think so seeing as how it exploded in my face," she says weakly, and he pulls her arm away to prevent further contamination. He practically rips the knit cardigan she was wearing off of her, and hauls her to her feet. She whimpers in pain, and tips her head back against his shoulder, her eyes tightly shut as he helps her down the hall to the bathroom. He frantically turns on the water full blast, not letting go of her for a second, and when the ancient pipes finally manage to pump the water through the shower head, he wastes no time dragging her into the tub with him.

"Tilt your head back, and try to keep your eyes open," he says and brushes the hair back from her face so as much water can get into her impossibly red eyes.

"It hurts," she hisses, but does as she's told shivering lightly. He sets to work scrubbing off his hands with the bar of soap, and when he's satisfied that they are clean enough, takes to her hands as well, rubbing up her arms all the way to the sleeves of her tee-shirt just to be safe. After a moment she asks, "What about you? Did it get in your eyes?"

"No. Thankfully I was wearing goggles when you decided to engage in a bloody tug-of-war with me over expired dairy products," he grumbles with mock annoyance and pulls the elastic band out of her hair. She chuckles weakly, and leans into him, the pain making her knees tremble. (Stupid, _stupid_ of him. Careless.) He dollops a good portion of shampoo into his palm and works it into her scalp before attending to his own hair and face. He hisses, his cheek and the bridge of his nose stinging more than he was initially aware of.

"Come on, your turn," Jane says, and shifts them so Sherlock is under the direct line of spray.

"What about your eyes?" he says even through the cool water running over his skin is a relief.

"The burning is mostly gone. And it looks like you didn't manage to blind me, so it's fine," she says through a wry grin. She reaches up and scrubs the shampoo through his hair, her fingernails gently scraping his scalp and soothing the raw pain.

They are quiet for a while as the water runs over them, and Sherlock can't help but feel slightly nauseated. If he hadn't diluted the hydrofluoric acid as much as he did this could have ended very differently. He opens his mouth to say something when he's abruptly cut off by another sting of pain to his cheek.

"Sorry!" Jane says lowering her fingers from her probing. She looks up at him, a graveness suddenly coming over her. "I am sorry, I mean," she says quietly. "You're right it was childish."

Sherlock blinks, taken aback. (Oh but of _course_ Jane would apologise for something that was hardly her fault. It was Jane.) Ironically this doesn't make him feel any better. He clears his throat.

"Yes well. Perhaps you weren't the only one being an idiot. And you couldn't have possibly had the foresight to know my experiment would have reacted the way that it did," he says, and without really thinking he pushes the hair out of her eyes once more.

"I think there's an apology in there somewhere, but I can't be sure…" she says with a smile and resumes her examination of the burn on his cheek, more gently this time. "That's going to need to be addressed. Come on, let's get out of these wet clothes, and you can clean the kitchen while I make tea."

* * *

**AN: Disclaimer: I am not a chemist. So if I exaggerated the effects of nitric, hydrofluoric, and lactic acids then it's for the sake of SCIENCE. No wait...**


	3. Bond

**Jane makes good on her promise.**

**In conjunction with the chapter 'One of Those Days' from my story The Colour of Light Part III**

* * *

**Bond**

_Mr. Science Man – 2:45 PM  
Bored. Entertain me.  
SH_

_Mr. Science Man – 2:46 PM  
Jane.  
SH_

_Mr. Science Man – 2:46 PM  
Jane.  
SH_

_Mr. Science Man – 2:47 PM  
Jane.  
SH_

_Sent – 2:48 PM  
sherlock I'm at work._

_Mr. Science Man – 2:48 PM  
But there's nothing to do here. Can I come there?  
SH_

_Sent – 2:49 PM  
ah. no. don't you even dare._

_Mr. Science Man – 2:51 PM  
I thought I fixed your phone? Why do you still insist on having terrible grammar?  
SH_

_Sent – 2:55 PM  
maybe it's a conspiracy? I do these things just to irritate you. I could use emoticons to be extra cruel._

_Mr. Science Man – 2:56 PM  
What in the world is an emoticon?  
SH_

_Sent – 2:58 PM  
;)_

_Mr. Science Man – 3:01 PM  
Jane?  
SH_

_Sent – 3:01 PM  
:)_

_Mr. Science Man – 3:03 PM  
Jane those are just symbols.  
SH_

_Sent – 3:04 PM  
no they're not they're faces. :P_

_Mr. Science Man – 3:04 PM  
Oh god. Forget I asked.  
SH_

_Sent – 3:05 PM  
:D_

_Sent – 3:05 PM  
o0o_

_Sent – 3:05 PM  
o.o_

_Mr. Science Man – 3:06 PM  
Stop.  
SH_

_Sent – 3:08 PM  
:P_

_Mr. Science Man – 3:09 PM  
STOP.  
SH_

_Sent – 3:10 PM  
o_O or what?_

_Mr. Science Man – 3:10 PM  
All right you forced me into this.  
SH_

_Sent – 3:11 PM  
sherlock?_

_Sent – 3:25 PM  
hey._

_Sent – 3:40 PM  
Okay fine. There. Is that better? All nice and grammatically correct._

_Sent – 3:45 PM  
Sherlock?_

_Mr. Science Man – 3:46 PM  
It's too late Jane. I asked you nicely.  
SH_

_Sent – 3:47 PM  
What did you do?_

_Sent – 3:53 PM  
Sherlock?_

_Mr. Science Man – 4:05 PM  
:)_

…

When Jane ascended the seventeen steps up to the flat forty-five minutes later, she had a sinking feeling in her gut mostly due to the strong smell of her beloved English Breakfast permeating the hall. When she opened the door she was nearly bowled over by the aroma. She makes her way into the kitchen to assess the damage.

Used tea bags litter the work top like carcasses, their bodies crushed and mangled almost beyond recognition. The empty box sits bereft next to the stove, and Jane picks it up, crest fallen. She looks around and sees a flask bubbling merrily over a Bunsen burner, and the culprit — the murderer himself — was sitting in front of it jotting down notes.

"You. Are. A. Monster," Jane says and tosses the box in the bin.

"Oh hello, Jane. Have a good day?" Sherlock says casually, not bothering to look up.

"What have you done?" Jane asks coming over to peer into the flask warily.

"Experiemnt. I'm attempting to isolate the caffeine from your black tea."

"And that required all fifteen tea bags?"

"Well no but — wait you count your tea bags?" Sherlock asks with a smirk finally looking up. Jane decides not to answer this. So what if she does? She hates when she runs out and she doesn't get her evening cuppa. Like now for instance.

"You know I always have a cup of tea when I get home from the Surgery," Jane says crossing her arms. "I never took you for being deliberately cruel, Sherlock Holmes."

"Sociopath, Jane," Sherlock answers good-naturedly and gets to his feet. He comes over and practically looms over her. "That will teach you to take my threats more seriously in the future."

She goes to say something when she's cut off by a loud sniff from Sherlock. She closes her mouth and looks at him more carefully. His eyes are slightly glassy and red-rimmed, and he looks more pale than usual. When he sniffs subconsciously for the second time, Jane smirks. She couldn't call herself a doctor if she didn't recognise the beginning symptoms of 'Flu when she saw them.

"You're right. How silly of me," she says and marches out of the kitchen. She tries not to laugh at the sucker punched look on Sherlock's face, and makes her way upstairs to wait.

…

A few hours later, Sherlock's slightly hoarse voice floats up from down stairs.

"Jane?"

Jane smirks. "Yes, Sherlock?" she says casually.

"Do we…" he clears his throat. "Do we have any throat lozenges?"

"Um. Check in the airing cupboard. I have an old tote in there on the shelf," she calls. He doesn't answer back, and she wonders if he even knows where the airing cupboard is. She sniggers to herself. The prat probably deleted it.

Jane gives him another twenty minuets before she goes down stairs with all the necessary accoutrements to put her plan into action. The sight she is met with is a pitiful one to say the least.

Sherlock is slouching in his chair with his legs stretched out in front of him, clutching a plaid afghan around his shoulders while he shivers, his teeth audibly clicking together. She chuckles, and he glares daggers at her but the effect is diminished significantly due to his ashen complexion and red nose. A battle field of tissues lay scattered around him, and she can see where the trail leads back to the kitchen. She sets down the quilt and paracetamol and goes to fill the hot water bottle and turn on the electric kettle.

"You're loving this," Sherlock says when she comes back in humming under her breath. She kneels down and undoes his shoes. His legs drop bonelessly back to the floor with a pathetic thud.

"Yep," she says and helps him to his feet. "Go get comfortable and come back out here. Unless you feel tired enough to sleep?" she says innocently.

"It's eight o'clock in the evening, Jane. I'm not going to bed like some old man," Sherlock grumbles and shuffles back to his room, still clinging to the afghan like, well, an old man. She can barely contain her glee, and goes into the kitchen to make Sherlock a cup of chamomile tea with extra honey.

He shuffles back out a few minutes later, and Jane shucks the thin afghan from around him and replaces it with her fluffy quilt. She adjusts it much to his annoyance, and manouvres him to sit on the sofa. His teeth chatter comically, and she puts the warm cuppa into his hands.

"Drink that. Because I'm guessing you didn't find the cough drops," Jane says with a smile, and puts her hand on his forehead. "You don't seem to have a fever as of yet, so you can tuck the hot water bottle under the blankets with you if you want."

Sherlock grimaces as he finishes the last dregs of his tea, and eagerly accepts the water bottle. He groans appreciatively as he holds it between his frozen fingers for a moment before it disappears beneath the quilt. She hums and puts the Union Jack pillow on the coffee table so he can prop his feet up.

"There. All comfy? Getting warm?" she asks.

"Yes," he huffs grudgingly and takes a few paracetamol from her.

"Good," she says with a cruel twist of her lips. "Now it's time for the entertainment."

"Entertainment?" Sherlock rasps arching an eyebrow. Jane pulls out her final implement of torture and takes out the disc. She tosses the DVD case onto Sherlock's lap and makes her way to the television. "_Diamonds are Forever?_" he says in horror.

"I told you I would get you to watch a Bond film with me. Maybe that will teach _you_ that I don't make idle threats either, Mr. Culturally Oblivious."

"Just kill me instead. I'll tell you how to get away with it and everything," Sherlock moans, and brings the quilt up over his head.

"Oh no," Jane says and pulls the quilt back down. "It's either you watch this with me, or go to bed. Those are your options." She sits down next to him and clicks the play button. Sherlock crosses his arms in a huff and scowls at the screen and Jane smiles at her victory.

Her victory is short lived, however, when Sherlock begins to ridicule the telly with,

"There's no way that revolver would work after being submerged in the mud like that."

and

"Scalpels? Really? Blofeld needs new henchmen if they can be felled by a hand full of scalpels when they have semi-automatic machine guns at their disposal."

and

"No, no, no! A scorpion sting is rarely potent enough to kill a fully grown man!"

"Sherlock! The point of this movie isn't to be logical! Now shut up and watch it!" Jane snaps.

"All I'm saying is the methods employed by Bond —"

Jane unwraps a throat lozenge and crams it into his mouth before he can finish the sentence, and he grumbles unintelligibly but remains quiet for the time being.

After a while Sherlock says, "You really like this don't you?"

"I may be enjoying a bit of payback, but no Sherlock, I don't revel in the fact that you've got 'Flu. It's no fun, probably for me more than you considering I'll be the one making sure you get better from it you git," she says and knocks her knee into his.

"No I mean the movie," Sherlock says.

"What? Yeah 'course I do. It's a classic," she says.

"But…it's so _bad_," Sherlock says flinging an arm out to concede his point. Jane laughs.

"Yeah it is pretty bad." She laughs again as 007 hijacks a moon buggy and out runs his aggressors in the Nevadan desert. "But that's the point I think. My dad loved these movies…" she trails off thoughtfully.

"Mm," Sherlock grunts. "So as a doctor do you prescribe hackneyed espionage movies to all your patients with 'Flu?"

"It depends. Is it working?"

Sherlock grunts again and burrows deeper into the quilt as an answer. Jane suppresses a smirk, and they spend the remainder of the movie in silence. However, when Sherlock's eyes drift shut and he ends up with his head on Jane's shoulder, she can't help but chuckle softly.

* * *

**AN: Thanks for all of the favs and follows! All feedback and reviews are welcome!**


	4. The Skull on the Mantle

_**Just another rainy Thursday...**_

**AN: This one is a bit angsty and can be read alone, but I highly recommend you read Chapter Two: 'Graffiti at the Bank' from my Colour of Light Part III story. It gives a bit of background.**

* * *

**The Skull on the Mantle**

Jane has nick names for everybody. It is equal parts irritating, and amusing. Especially if they are directed in Mycroft's direction. (He was particularly fond of Mycroft's newest one, 'Emperor of Cake' that he plugged it into his contacts.) He was less amused at the slew of his own nick names — Mr. Science Man, Mr. Cambridge, and Clever McSmarty were some of the worst. But the fact she did it purely to goad him made it okay some how. It was a trait of hers that despite himself, he actually found rather endearing. (Not that he would ever admit it of course.) So it wasn't a surprise, really when she spoke up one evening and announced:

"Roger." She puts down her novel decisively.

"What are you on about?" Sherlock says plucking a few chords on his violin and staring into the fire.

"Your skull. We should call him Roger."

"What? Why?" Sherlock lowers his instrument and looks at her taken aback.

"Like the pirate flag. You know…Jolly Roger?" she smiles and chuckles under her breath at her own joke and continues reading.

Sherlock's eyes slide to the skull on the mantle. He almost forgot…well no he didn't but he wanted to forget. Just for a little while.

"I don't understand your obsession with nick names, Jane. It's rather childish," he snaps acerbically. Jane blinks up at him with wide eyes.

"Grumpy tonight, aren't we," she remarks. Her teasing tone makes his temper flare. He gets to his feet in an angry huff.

"It's just — it's not his name, all right?" he says his voice raising to a shout, and he puts his violin back in the case. He turns around and finds that she has gotten to her feet.

"Sherlock?" She reaches out to him, but he flinches back.

"It's Wednesday," he says by means of explanation and brushes past her to his room much to her bewilderment. He doesn't emerge for the rest of the night. He can't bear her penetrating gaze that seems to see more than he wanted; he can't surface through the mire of his thoughts.

-oOo-

Jane wakes up the next day to the sinking, sighing sounds of Sherlock's violin. Quietly, she ventures down stairs and stops in the door way.

Sherlock sways side to side with his back to her to the somber notes and phrases, and he pulls the bow across the strings with a reverence that makes something in Jane's chest flutter and pound. It is joy and sorrow; the light after the dark; grief like the smell of rain and catharsis like the sun breaking through the clouds. It makes the corners of her eyes sting with unshed tears, and she quietly retreats back to her room to compose herself.

Later, she comes back down stairs and Sherlock is still at the window, the violin hanging loosely at his side. Rain is coming down in sheets outside and breaking against the glass distorting the view. It's hypnotic and Sherlock is transfixed, his brow furrowed and his eyes hard. Jane knows better than to disturb him, and makes her way to the kitchen to make some tea. She brings the second cup — just the way he likes it, milky and sweet — out to him and sets it on the desk. She comes to stand beside him and gently fixes his blue dressing gown that has slipped off one shoulder, and she turns and leaves for work without saying a word.

The day passes by rather uneventfully, and Jane can't help but check the messages on her phone obsessively. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock not to text, but in conjunction with his volatile shift in mood the night before, and this morning's display, Jane worried for her friend. Something about his latest fugue was off. She was used to his pensive silence, but there was a darkness behind his eyes that spoke of something deeply troubling. She thought about texting him, but she dismissed the thought knowing it wouldn't do any good anyway.

Late that night she comes back to the flat laden with takeaway, and she can hear the violin again from the street through the open window. What Sherlock was doing with the window open at the beginning of April she didn't know. She comes up the stairs and takes the kitchen entrance so she can put their dinner down on the counter. Sherlock probably wouldn't eat, but she hoped the gesture would at least be acknowledged. Her ears perk up when she hears a clatter and a low curse uttered from the sitting room.

"Sherlock?" she says coming through the door just as Sherlock grabs his bow that had fallen to the ground. He pauses for a fraction of a second and then starts up again. This time Jane listens where she hadn't been listening before.

She hears the faint grind of horse hair on string, and the failing vibrato. To someone who hadn't listened to Sherlock play for hours on end, it would sound nearly perfect. But Jane could hear the imperfections: the occasional flat note, and the frequent legato where perhaps a staccato was warranted. She sees how his arms tremble with the effort, and how every note gleaned from the instrument seemed to be physically painful. She comes up behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock?" she says again. He doesn't stop, and Jane finally notices the state of the fingers on his left hand. They are coated in blood, both dry and fresh, and every time he lifts them, they stick to the fingerboard causing his hand to tremble before pressing down once more. She gasps and tries to turn him to face her, but he resists her. "How long have you been playing?" she tries. Still no response. _"Sherlock! Stop!"_

"I CAN'T!" he roars whipping around to face her clutching his violin around the neck. The bow lands on the floor again, and Sherlock pants though his clenched teeth, eyes wild. Jane doesn't even flinch.

_"Why?"_ she asks in a hushed voice. He turns away from her and runs a hand though his ragged curls.

"It's Thursday," he says, his voice gravelly.

Thursday? What was so important about today? She tries to rack her brain for any significance of today's date, but she draws a blank. Not knowing what else to say, she puts her hand on his back again. When he doesn't shrug her off, she slowly reaches down and takes the violin from Sherlock's slackening grasp. She sets it down on the desk, and notices with dismay the tea from earlier, untouched. Jane takes him by the wrist and guides him to sit in his chair. He complies without argument, and she goes up stairs to retrieve her first aid kit.

When she comes back down she finds Sherlock leaning against the mantle with a glass of scotch, staring at the skull.

"I didn't know we had scotch," she remarks. He grunts non-committally and drains it with shaking hands. She leads him to the sofa and sits across from him on the coffee table. Gingerly she takes his hand and rests it in her lap palm up, and as gently as she can she washes the dried blood off of his fingers with a warm flannel. He doesn't even blink as she cleans the cuts with antiseptic and plasters them one by one.

"It's Thursday," Sherlock says again barely above a whisper. "That's ten years now."

And suddenly it hits her. A conversation they had a little over a week ago:

_"Did you have a falling out with Victor too? Is that why I've never heard of him?"_

_Sherlock's smile fades, and his eyes darken. "No. He died…"_

"Oh Sherlock…" Jane says, and Sherlock goes to put his head in his hands. He hisses in pain however and drops them limply in his lap. "Let me see," she says, and he holds his hands back out to her. She takes the right one and gently massages his swollen wrist. "This is what happens when you play for twelve hours straight, you great git," she says affectionately. She presses her thumbs into the center of his palm and rubs outward, easing the stiffness. He closes his eyes.

"Victor was an art student. Wanted to be an architect. He had an affinity for Bach," Sherlock says. He opens his eyes and trains his gaze on a point over her shoulder. Jane laces her warm fingers through his long dexterous ones and rotates his hand, flexing it slowly from side to side. She takes to the left one minding his bandages, and he tips his head back to rest against the wall. After she's finished massaging his hands she sits next to him on the sofa.

"You really cared for him didn't you?" she asks softly. He turns to look at her, and she is struck by his gaze. All of the pain and sorrow that he imbues into his violin is written like a score in his opalescent eyes. He turns away from her.

"Caring is not an advantage," he says as if by rote.

"Who told you _that?"_ Jane asks.

"It doesn't matter," he says and closes his eyes, that detached mask sliding back into place once more.

"They're wrong, you know," she whispers. She's not sure if he heard her, but words never mattered to Sherlock like actions did. So she guides him down so he could rest on his side with his head in her lap. He goes willingly, and sighs deep in his chest.

The rain picks up again, and Jane can hear the sound of distant thunder. She runs her fingers through his hair content to listen to the metallic patter of raindrops against the gutters of 221 B. Her mind wanders and her eyes drift around the room. They rest on the small carriage clock on the mantle.

"Sherlock?" she says smoothing the hair back from his temple. At first she though he fell asleep, but after a moment he turns on his back with a question in his eyes. "It's midnight," she says and shows him her watch. The corner of his mouth curls up in a soft smile.

"Friday," he says.

* * *

**AN: This is just my two in one theory on Sherlock's skull, and Victor Trevor. Comments welcome! And thanks for reading.**


	5. Conductor of Light

_**Neither here nor there...**_

**The power goes out at 221b.**

* * *

**AN: In conjunction with the chapter Strange Predicament in my story 'Colour of Light Part III'**

* * *

**Conductor of Light**

Dr. Major Barrington killed his wife.

Sherlock just _knows._

But he can't figure out how. It was beyond frustrating, especially seeing as how his mind kept drifting over irrelevant facts:

Mrs. Barrington — primary school teacher; 48 years of age, Aquarius; frequent Regent Country Club member; cat owner; widowed, re-married to Dr. Barrington in 2006.

Dr. Barrington — widower of ten years before Mrs. Barrington; Dr. who owns a private practice; 53, Taurus; penchant for golf; smoker; graduated from Oxford; well off, no need for the life insurance that he no doubt cashed in after his wife's death was ruled as heart failure, so no clear motive.

Sherlock paces back and forth intent on wearing a hole in the floor. He calls out to Jane twice to make him tea before he remembers she isn't home from the surgery yet. For some reason this irritates him even more until his pent up frustration gets the best of him and he stops dead centre and yells, to no one in particular, obscenities at the ceiling. (In three different languages.)

Then, as if the whole bleeding _universe_ was against him, the power promptly goes out.

Fully aware that he is on the verge of throwing a tantrum like a four year old, (and supremely beyond caring at this point) he flops down onto the floor in huff with his legs crossed at first, before giving in and sprawling out flat on his back, arms and legs akimbo. Hopefully the blood currently pooling at the base of his skull would help jumpstart his synapses. (Wishful thinking, probably.)

He doesn't know how long he lays there staring into the dark before he hears Jane's familiar tread on the staircase.

"Power out, then?" Jane says, stating the obvious. Sherlock curls his toes indignantly within his expensive leather shoes.

"You really are on _sparkling form_ tonight, Jane," he says sarcastically.

Jane chuckles good-naturedly, letting the jibe roll off her back. It irritates him further and he flings an arm dramatically over his eyes while he listens to her rummage around in the kitchen for the torch they kept there for such emergencies.

"Why are you on the floor?" she asks a moment later, and Sherlock can feel her step over him on her way to the fireplace.

"I need to think. I was hoping a change in perspective would help me see," he grumbles. He lowers his arm and watches as the weak glow of the fire steadily gets brighter, casting shadows on the stuccoed ceiling.

"Is it working?" Jane finally asks, and she leans back until she is lying on the floor likewise, their heads next to each other and their feet pointing in opposite directions like some sort of human yin-yang. Sherlock turns and finds her looking at him, the orange of the flames making her irises look like molten gold.

"No, not yet," he sighs, his black mood dissipating slightly at her presence. She sighs and folds her hands over her stomach.

"When I was a little girl, I used to make pictures out of my textured ceiling before I went to sleep at night," Jane says in dreamy voice. "We've got a perfect one for that," she says and gestures to said ceiling in question.

"How quaint of you," Sherlock says, but the remark is devoid of its usual acerbity. Between Jane lying next to him and the steady warmth of the fire, he is beginning to relax despite himself.

"Yep. I think I can see Father Christmas…and the Titanic in that particularly interesting cluster of drywall just there," Jane points, and Sherlock tries, and fails to follow her line of sight. (And fails to see the point in the exercise as well.) "What about you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you see anything?"

"Apart from an appalling amount of no doubt cancer inducing Asbestos?" he snorts, and she flicks him against the cheek. "Hey!"

"Use your imagination, you berk. It might help get your mind off the problem for a bit so when you return to it you'll be more fresh."

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock says and squints at the ceiling.

"Just try it. What else are you going to do with the power out anyway?"

He gives a lengthy sigh and looks at up the dancing peaks and valleys cast by the light. After a moment he says, "The molecular structure of cocaine, and next to it, the double helix of a strand of DNA."

"Only you would see DNA," Jane laughs shaking her head. "Where?"

"There," he points.

"Where is it?" she asks again, and shuffles close to him to where their cheeks are nearly touching. Her soft hair whispers against his skin, and he can smell her shampoo and the scent of disinfectant and apple blossoms.

"Are you blind? Right there, Jane," he says and grabs her hand so he can guide her finger to where he was indicating. "It's a double helix in the process of replicating itself."

"Right," she says sceptically as they lower their arms. "I think it looks like a cat."

"A cat? I thought you said the point of this was to use your imagination?" he scoffs.

"A cat is imaginative!" she says defensively. "Especially when he's wearing a smart looking top hat right now."

"Really Jane? Surely —" Suddenly Sherlock stops mid sentence as the answer clicks into place. _"Oh,"_ he breathes and looks at her. Even though the flat is still plunged into darkness, everything is stunningly bright. (Brilliant. Resplendent. Jane.)

"Sherlock?"

"It was the _cat,"_ he says excitedly. "Dr. Major Barrington's wife was allergic to their cat and was on a regimen of antihistamines to combat the symptoms. Seeing as how her husband was also her doctor, and had access to the pharmacy his practice went through, it would have been easy for him to cause the overdose which lead to her heart failure. He got the pathologist over at St. Mary's to forge the tox screen, neat!"

"You've solved it, then?" Jane says with a grin.

"Yes. It's all so obvious now," Sherlock says with a matching smile. He absently plucks an eyelash off of Jane's cheek and blows it off the tip of his finger.

"See? I knew this was a good idea. Sometimes you need to focus on something else for a while; take a step back and observe something completely mundane." She closes her eyes, and begins to hum happily under her breath.

Sherlock continues to look at her as he lets her words sink in. She was right, this was exactly what he needed; a sort of respite for his brain like a reset button. However, she was wrong about one thing: it wasn't the funny little game they were playing that did it, it was _her._ Her presence, her voice, even that familiar smell of clinic and hand lotion that was uniquely Jane. And she was _anything_ but mundane.

She was like a whet stone for his mind.

She was like a dowsing rod leading him to things just under the surface.

Incandescent.

His conductor of _light._

"So you gonna let Greg know?" she asks drowsily after a while, her eyes still closed.

"I will in a bit," he says, content to let her glow wash over them both.

* * *

**AN: I just have to give a hugeeee thanks to everyone who has read and faved and reviewed. Your feedback is most encouraging, and makes me write more and write faster! Kisses to all of you. xxHoney**


	6. Let Me In

_**Sherlock is a difficult partner to work with.**_

**In conjunction with the chapter 'Strange Predicament' in the story Colour of Light Part III.**

* * *

**Let Me In**

Jane Watson was a doctor: a trauma surgeon, in fact. A damn good one. She graduated top of her class. She was also a Captain in Her Majesty's Royal Army which was a feat in itself for one so young and she was highly decorated to boot.

So why, then, she was demoted to a bloody _coat rack_ for her crazy flatmate as he went haring off into the derelict warehouse in search of the drug operation that was Sherlock's current case, she didn't know.

"'Wait here, Jane,' he says. 'I'll only be a moment,' he says," Jane grumbles under her breath as she checks her watch for the fourth time in thirty minutes. "'Hold my coat, I don't want to _snag_ it on the _fence,'_ he says." She kicks a rock away from her with perhaps a little too much force. "'I'll come 'round front and let you in,' he says!" She really needed to stop talking to herself now.

Fed up with just standing there, Jane decides to walk around to the back of the warehouse so see if there was another way in.

She was about to try the steel doors on the side of the building before she heard shouting and swearing coming from the other side. She barely had a chance to dive behind a skip tucked up against the wall before they were flung open and a group of men ran out.

_"Fuck_ where's the van?" one of them shouts dragging his fingers through his lanky blonde hair.

"It's 'round the corner, come on!" another one says, and they all tear off down the street. Jane holds her breath until she can hear the growl of an engine and shrieking tyres retreating down the road.

Just to be safe she waits five whole minutes before rushing inside.

"Sherlock?" she calls out into the dimness. She has a strange twisty feeling in her gut when she is met with nothing but silence. "Sherlock?" She hurries down a dark corridor and rounds the corner into the main part of the warehouse. In the centre of the large room is what appears to be a meth lab and an assembly line of sorts abandoned in the crux of operation. Upon further examination, she can see the evidence of a struggle.

Glass beakers, a portable propane camping stove, and a table were upturned and scattered about the floor, and a small television was smashed in by someone's shoe of all things. A very familiar, and expensive looking shoe.

"Sherlock!" she yells, and tries to calm the frenetic beating of her heart so she could listen. She hears the anemic whine of a phone, and searches the floor. There in a pile of rubbish, is Sherlock's phone, screen cracked beyond repair, and flickering lightly. She picks it up and tries to get it to unlock, but it's completely broken. She can see there's an incoming text from Lestrade, but there's no way for her to get at it. She hopes that means he's on his way at least. "SHERLOCK!" she bellows, panic clawing its way up her throat.

Suddenly she hears a banging off somewhere to her left, and she takes off in that direction.

She rounds the corner of some rusty scaffolding and is met with a door that reads 'Boiler Room One' and she shoulders it open. The banging is at its loudest, and she travels down the claustrophobic corridor lined with leaky pipes and the strong smell of mildew.

"Sherlock!" she calls again, feeling turned about in this veritable labyrinth. The banging suddenly stops, its last echo ricocheting off the walls around her adding to the confusion. She holds her breath.

Then, from the back corner of the room she hears a weak, "Jane?"

"Oh thank god!" she says rushing to the sound of Sherlock's voice. She nearly falls through the floor that has been corroded by the damp, and has to grab onto a near by pipe for support.

"Careful!" Sherlock's voice shouts up at her from below. She peers down into the hole and sees Sherlock standing in a part of the building's basement, apparently. A very flooded basement by the looks of it, the water reaching all the way to Sherlock's armpits.

"How did you get down there?" she says and looks around for something to hoist him out.

"Oh, y'know. Th-thought I'd g-go for a swim," Sherlock tries to say sarcastically, but the effect is diminished due to his chattering teeth. "They threw me d-down here. What d-do you th-think?" he snaps.

"Hang on," Jane says spotting a length of sturdy chain piled in the corner. She threads it through a strong looking pipe, and snakes the rest down the hole. "Don't let go," she snarls down at him, and then braces herself on the ground, feet firmly planted on the pipe and wall in front of her. She feels a sharp tug at the chain, and begins pulling with all her strength.

The chain slips twice, causing the skin on the palms of her hands to break open and bleed a little, but if she lets go now, she won't have the strength to pull him all the way up. She grits her teeth, and throws all of her stamina into the task until Sherlock's dark head appears at the top. His arms flail, scrabbling for purchase as he tries to throw his upper body over the lip. Once he has some sort of leverage, Jane lunges forward and grips him by the forearms and pulls him out the rest of the way. He immediately curls on his side and shivers violently.

"Are you hurt?" she asks.

"N-not too much. Knocked me around a b-bit. Just c-c-cold," he says and closes his eyes as deep tremors wrack his body. His lips and fingers are an alarming shade of blue, and Jane recognises the beginning stages of hypothermia.

"I'll be right back," she says and bolts to her feet, sprinting back out to the main room where she dropped Sherlock's coat earlier. She also snatches his phone from off of the floor for good measure, and runs back to the boiler room.

Sherlock has managed to pull himself to a somewhat upright position, and Jane doesn't waste any time hauling him to his feet and stripping off his sopping wet blazer and dress shirt.

"If you w-wanted me to t-take my clothes off, all you had to d-do was ask," he says cheekily, and sags against her. She doesn't comment on this, and instead unbuckles his belt with all the professional distance of a doctor she can summon, and pulls off his trousers and remaining shoe. She drapes his wool coat around his bare shoulders and guides him to sit against the wall before he collapses completely.

"Close your eyes," she orders.

"Why?" he asks deliriously.

"You're hypothermic, and need to get your core body temp up," she says matter-of-fact, and hikes the fair isle jumper she was wearing over her head. His eyes widen comically before closing, and she quickly toes off her shoes and strips likewise down to her underclothes. After hesitating for only a moment, she situates herself sideways in his lap, and winds an arm around his waist, pressing as much of her chest and abdomen as close as she can to his where she knows most of the heat will be conserved. She pulls the coat tight about them, and rests her free hand on his chest as he wraps his shaking arms around her. They sit in silence for a while until Sherlock's spasms turn into a much gentler shivering.

"You're warm," Sherlock murmurs resting his chin atop her head.

"That's the point," she grumbles. "And you're an idiot by the way."

"I had everything under control," he remarks, subconsciously pulling her closer to him. "You're like a miniature furnace."

"And you smell like a sewer," she says.

"Did you call Lestrade?"

"No."

"What? Why?" he asks perplexed.

"Because _someone_ thought it would be a good idea to drain the battery on my phone forcing me to leave it behind to charge," she says and clenches the fist resting on the maniac's chest. She hisses in pain, forgetting about her raw palms. Sherlock pulls away a little and gingerly takes her hand so he could inspect the angry welts and shredded skin. She winces.

"It's no matter. He'll be here eventually. I set up a timed message with the details of our whereabouts set to go off unless I entered the password proving I was all right. Good idea too, seeing as how I was ambushed the moment I walked in and thrown down there," he shivers again, and she pushes her head back under his chin to close the frigid gap of air he created.

"Is that what spooked them?" she asks despite her growing anger.

"Undoubtedly," he says and she can feel him grin. "I triggered my phone to send another message that looped back around as a decoy from Lestrade saying he was bringing half the Met along with him."

"But they escaped."

"Yes. They most likely ran straight to their safe house. The one which they were talking about like imbeciles before they caught me. I managed to fire off the location before they took my phone away."

"Clever you," she says, voice dripping with disdain. "'I'm Sherlock Holmes, and I always work alone because no one can compete with _my massive intellect.'"_

"You're…angry?" Sherlock asks bemusedly.

"Yep."

"…Why?"

"You honestly don't know do you?" Jane asks and pushes away so she could look him in the face. He blinks at her in confusion. "Do you know what could have happened if I didn't show up? You could have died."

"But you did show up."

"Yeah only because I'm probably more insane than you are."

"What do you mean?"

"You dragged me out of the flat with no explanation except for an off-hand comment about drug dealers, and left me outside a dodgy abandoned warehouse without any instructions except to hold your bloody coat, and then against my better judgment, I entered said warehouse _after_ I saw a group of _said drug dealers_ run out of it."

"Your point?"

"The point is, Sherlock, you didn't tell me anything about what you were up to. You kept me in the dark. You didn't _let me in._ And if I were anybody else, you probably would be slowly freezing to death right now. Why do you ask for my help anyway if you clearly don't want it?"

"Jane I…do want your help. I just — I've never had a colleague before and it's…different. I'm not entirely sure what all that entails. No one's ever wanted to put up with me for this long," he admits. Jane is surprised at his honesty, and is actually stunned out of her rant. She lowers her head against his chest again and chalks it up to the hypothermia.

"I'm not as smart as you, Sherlock. I usually don't leap to conclusions like you do, and I need you to tell me what's going on from time to time. Or at least let me know somehow if I need to be there to pull you out of a hole," she says, and that elicits a low rumble of laughter from him. "We need a better system."

"Agreed," Sherlock says and buries his face in the crook of her neck. "Nose is cold," he mumbles, and she laughs despite herself. He was like an overgrown cat.

"Yeah it is," Jane says and ties to shrug him off, but he just tightens his hold. Something dawns on her. "Hey, when you get a new phone can you set up another automatic message thing?"

"You mean the timer?" he asks sleepily, warm breath ghosting over her collar bone making her skin tickle. She feels his muscles slacken as he finally begins to relax into their shared warmth.

"Yeah. Something to go off and let me know you're in trouble if we get separated. A code word or a phrase or something." She waits for a moment for his answer, but he just sighs gently against her. "Sherlock," she prods. "We need a code."

"Vatican cameos," he murmurs nonsensically already halfway gone to sleep.

"All right, but if you ask me later I'm going to say you came up with it and remind you that we cuddled and you fell asleep on my shoulder just to spite you," she whispers and adjusts the collar of his coat against the nape of his neck to keep the draught at bay.

* * *

**AN: Wow I must really love you guys or something. Updating the series twice in one day, shucks, you guys are fantastic. So enjoy! And I really can't tell you how grateful I am to receive your wonderful comments! Like I said your encouragement fans the flames and I just can't stop writing!**


	7. Fiasco

_**Jane and Sherlock have a bit of a domestic...**_

* * *

**AN: Hahaha okay so this is what happens when insomnia meets Sherlock fan fic. Idon'teven...my brain sometimes. I hope you find it adorable and fluffy as much as I do. Sorry if there's mistakes, it's quite late (early) right now and I'm clearly off my head.**

**In conjunction with the chapter 'Strange Predicament' in The Colour of Light Part III **

* * *

**Fiasco**

Sherlock was…furious. Which wasn't a new thing, but what was disconcerting was that all of that white hot fury was, for once, directed solely at Jane. She was used to his annoyance or impatience or general petulance, but this? Unbridled rage? It was new, and in her current state somewhere between 'fed up' and 'not giving a flying fuck,' it was almost amusing.

After the explosive conclusion of a particularly grueling case that ended in a Mexican Standoff on Waterloo bridge — her own gun pointed at her head while Lestrade leveled one at the suspect trying to talk him down, just before Sherlock caught him off guard and kicked the legs out from under him — Sherlock had engaged in a shouting match with Lestrade that Jane was barely cognisant of, and dragged her off in the direction of hailing a taxi. To which he unceremoniously stuffed her into and slammed the door.

Too exhausted to protest indignantly, she just allowed herself to be ushered about, and even endured Sherlock's hard glaring as he chose to sit across from her as if being in her direct line of sight at all times was a form of punishment. Punishment for what she had no idea.

Just as she was contemplating closing her eyes, he leans forward suddenly, and firmly cups her jaw with the fingers of one hand while he gingerly swipes her loose tangled hair off of her forehead.

"Ouch!" she hisses as he gently prods the gash over her eyebrow.

"Don't be an infant," Sherlock says quietly, however the smoulder is still there in his eyes as he examines the rest of her face. She can feel as his eyes linger over the throbbing bruise on her cheek, his eyes narrowing even further before releasing her in a huff.

She was just about to ask what his problem was, when she's cut off by the buzz in her pocket. She pulls out her mobile, and clicks on the inbox.

_Tell 'Himself' that this don't get him out of paperwork, & I expect to see the both of u at the station first thing tomorrow. And I mean FIRST THING. This is gonna b a disaster as it is & I really don't want to b accused of cuttin corners.  
GL_

Jane grits her teeth. She wasn't Sherlock's goddam keeper.

"Greg is requesting our presence first thing tomorrow at Scotland Yard," Jane says tetchily.

"Oh god," Sherlock sighs while rolling his eyes to the ceiling of the cab.

Frustrated, Jane leans her head against the window, a migraine blooming at the base of her skull. She closes her eyes for just a moment, allowing herself a brief nap before they got to Baker Street.

Her eyes fly open as she is jarred against the side of the window when the cabbie suddenly slams on the breaks. Her temple smacks into the glass. It wasn't a hard smack, but with the impending migraine, pain suddenly exploded behind her eyes.

"Ow ow ow!" Jane says just as the cabbie curses avidly. Something about 'bastard fucking traffic jam!' and she groans again. Of course they would be stuck in traffic. As if the day wasn't already bad enough. She hunches over and puts her head in her hands.

"Jane?" Sherlock says, suddenly alert. "What's wrong?"

"Shh!" Jane says. She digs her fingertips into her scalp and massages.

"Jane?"

"Shut it, Sherlock. Seriously."

"Jane I think you should know —"

"Sherlock," Jane says cutting him off. She squeezes her eyes shut even tighter. "Please be quiet. Usually I let you run off at the mouth, but right now I'm not in the mood to entertain you during this ridiculous traffic jam. So if you could just suffer the boredom like the rest of us in peace I would be immensely grateful."

She hears him sniff disdainfully, and they spend the next half hour in simmering silence.

…

When they finally, _finally_ make it back to Baker Street, Jane is in a right foul mood. And when the cab pulls to a stop Sherlock leaps out, and literally slams the door in her face, which causes another spike of pain to shoot between her eyes. Oh and _of course_ he sticks her with the fare that's well over fifty quid. Fucking _brilliant._

By the time she stomps up the stairs, her raging headache has temporarily rescinded due to anger.

She finds her man-child of a flatmate sitting haughtily in his armchair with the paper in front of his face.

"_What_ is your goddam problem?" she shouts. He regards her indifferently from over the top of his paper for a second before ignoring her pointedly. She storms over and snatches the paper out of his hands.

He sighs. "Now you want to talk?"

"Don't be difficult," she snaps.

Suddenly, Sherlock's tepid apathy shifts to that boiling rage once more. He jumps to his feet and looms over her.

"I'm not the one who makes things _difficult_, Jane," he spits. She looks up at him, incredulous.

"Hang on…are you actually _blaming_ me for what happened on the bridge today? Is this what this is all about?"

"You were careless!" he roars. "It only took one second, Jane. One second for you to become disoriented for a _murderer_ to take your gun and nearly blow a hole in your skull!"

"Well I'm sorry if I couldn't help it if the man pulled my hair out when I bloody _tackled the bastard to stop him from stabbing you!"_ her voice ends in an indignant shriek. It wasn't her fault that the wind picked up and caused her hair to cover her eyes while she had him at gunpoint. It's not like she could control the _weather._ "If it's so inconvenient for you maybe I should just cut it all off!"

Sherlock's ready made retort abruptly dies in his throat. Instead he says, "What? Don't be ridiculous. You're not cutting off your hair."

"Sorry?" Jane says. The heated argument they had been having has suddenly taken…some kind of turn, and Jane is admittedly lost.

"You can't cut your hair, Jane. That's not an option."

"Um…I think that's my decision. Y'know. It's my hair."

"Wrong. It wouldn't be your decision, it would be forced upon you due to circumstance," Sherlock replies.

"And that's…no good?" Jane says a little thickly. The pounding in her head was back, and she couldn't quite understand why they were arguing about her…hair.

"Of course it isn't, Jane. It's contrary to your nature. You hate being controlled, have been ever since you were discharged from service. Anything conformist makes you cringe. If it didn't you wouldn't have let your hair grow out to the length it is now."

"Maybe I just haven't had time to go to get a trim," she says raising her chin. She doesn't want to acknowledge that maybe Sherlock is a little bit right, now that she thought about it. After it grew past the awkward stage, the thought of her cutting it or smoothing it back into its customary bun never appealed to her.

"We both know that's not true," Sherlock says, his voice softening a little. "It makes you who you are, regardless of its inconvenience." He absently tucks an errant strand behind her ear.

She blinks up at him, surprised. Sherlock always had an eerie way of revealing things about Jane that even she didn't know until it was put to words. "So what do you suggest we do about it?" she asks a little weakly. Between the adrenaline crash and the nagging headache, she's suddenly shattered.

Sherlock frowns, a new puzzle at his fingertips. "I'll think of something. Go tend to that cut in your forehead," he says and pulls out his mobile.

"You always do," she says rolling her eyes and heading to the bathroom

It's only when she's affixing a few butterfly bandages to the wound above her eye does she realise how ridiculous that entire argument was. She nearly hits her head on the tap, doubled over in laughter.

"Are you concussed?" Sherlock asks from behind her, his eyebrow inching towards his hairline in amusement.

"It's possible," she giggles wiping her eyes. "A mild one. Barely there, probably," she says.

"What an astute diagnosis, Doctor," Sherlock says sarcastically. She grins, and then suddenly winces as her bruised cheek twinges in protest. He comes over to her and inspects the slight swelling, and his eyes darken. "He hit you harder than I realised."

"Oh I've been hit worse," she replies. "Although, not with the butt of my own gun. That's a whole new level of humiliation. I'm almost ashamed to call myself a Captain."

"That reminds me, when we go in tomorrow and talk with Lestrade we tell him that the gun was the suspect's, and it must have fallen into the Thames during the fray."

"All right. I'm assuming it didn't really fall into the Thames, though, right?"

"Of course not. I pickpocket the badges right off the man, surely I can get away with a firearm concealed in my coat in the midst of such a considerable distraction."

Jane purses her lips as she frowns. "I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not. And I'm almost certain he knows about my gun, Sherlock."

"Whether he does or not it'll be less paper work for the all of us. Clearly the utilitarian option is best?" he smirks, and steers her out of the bathroom by her shoulders.

He plunks her on the couch and disappears into the kitchen. "Oh god please say you're making tea," she groans, her face really starting to hurt at this point. After a moment she hears the kettle flick on. "Bless you, you eccentric madman, you," she mumbles with her eyes closed.

"Open," Sherlock says and hands her a cold pack wrapped in a towel to which she presses against her cheek gratefully. "Sit on the floor with your back to the sofa."

"Why?" she asks but complies all the same.

"I think I have a solution to our problem," he says and settles in behind her, one long leg on either side. "Would it be too much for you if you attempted to multitask?" he sneers.

"No, you git. What's this about?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock hands her his phone where there is a diagram up on the screen with step by step instructions. She twists around to look at him her mouth slightly agape and eyebrows raised.

"Shut up and hold it steady," he snaps peevishly, and Jane snickers but does as she's told holding it up like some sort of Statue of Liberty and Sherlock sets to work, his long fingers twining in and out of her hair.

It takes a bit longer than she thought, Sherlock having to start over a couple of times with a muttered curse of _'Damn!'_ or _'Blast!'_ or her favourite _'Stecore!'_ which if she had to guess, was Latin for something not nice. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to make swearing sound posh.

Jane felt her arm getting heavy rather quickly, and after her wrist was yanked up for the second time, Sherlock just snatched it back from her saying he got the basic principle of the thing anyway. Which was fine with her, because she was beginning to relax under his ministrations, her eyes drooping as his cool fingers caressed her scalp.

Finally, after what seemed like a long time Sherlock announced: "There. Finished."

"Hm?" Jame hums and traces her fingers over the top of her head. Her index finger follows the elegant ridge of the French plait all the way to the tip. "Sherlock Holmes. How very domestic of you," she teases fondly.

"Oh please," he scoffs. "It's the most practical solution to keep the hair out of your eyes, and it shouldn't fall out no matter who you tackle in the future. Besides, now that I've done it I can teach you so you can from now on."

"Who says I have the patience for this?" she says and laughs as she hears the familiar shutter noise behind her that meant Sherlock was taking a picture with his phone.

"You don't think you have the patience to plait your own hair? What kind of girl are you?"

"The kind who could hardly be arsed about her hairstyle half the time," she snorts.

"It's not about appearance, Jane. It's about utility."

"You are ridiculous."

"You're the one always saying we need to have these systems in place. If you won't do it, I will. Besides, there's a tutorial on something else I want to try," he says, and begins to unthread the weaves of her hair.

* * *

**C'mon Sherlock. Admit it. You just want to play with Jane's hair cuz it's purty.**


	8. Promise: Or the Love Song of Jane Watson

_**Jane's past haunts her, but there is always one constant in the darkness: Sherlock. **_

**This chapter is basically Jane's back story told in vignettes. If it seems deliberately vague there's a reason. There are brief allusions to bigger things, and if you can guess them kudos to you. But I didn't want to reveal everything in one go because this is 'Afters' and I wanted to leave the rest for the main arc. I hope you like it, and I really appreciate all of your lovely comments.**

**In conjunction with the chapter 'Nowhere Hours' in part three of the series.**

* * *

**Promise: Or the Love Song of Jane Watson**

She was a doctor, and he was a nurse. They met in the aftermath of a raid where the air was hot and close, and smelled of death under that hateful tent.

It was the first time she couldn't manage to save a single person.

"It's not supposed to get easier no matter what they tell you in med school," he said. He sits next to her on that smooth boulder she would go sometimes to think. He hands her his canteen.

"How do you not let it affect you?"

"I don't. They all affect me, because if they didn't their life wouldn't mean anything."

"Then why do this?" she said, her voice torn. "Why bother?"

"Because. It's worth it if there's at least one that you can save."

"Then what about days like today?"

"Days like today…" he trailed off, and rubbed his chin. "They're meant to remind us that we aren't God."

She drew in a ragged breath, and blinked back her tears.

…

She worked better when he was by her side. Faster. More confidently. He knew what she needed before she even asked. And always, on a bad night they would sit together on that rock that was quickly becoming theirs, and share sips of water from a canteen pretending it was something stronger.

"Bit not good, tonight Jane," he'd sigh wearily.

"Yeah," she'd reply. "Bit not good tonight."

He laced her fingers with his and they would sit there until dawn.

…

Being in the tent wasn't enough. She was sick of the futility.

_"Infantry Medic?_ You could be killed out there!" he roared.

"I'm _dying_ in here!" she shouted back. He turned his back on her breathing heavily in his anger; in his fear. "Don't you see? By the time they bring them to us, it's too late," she said in a shattered voice.

"I'm going with you," he said and wouldn't look at her.

…

Their company was attacked and near slaughtered one day during a field expedition. Only the two of them were left alive and taken captive.

They shared a small concrete room for three weeks, completely cut off from the outside world and constantly afraid for their lives.

They shared stories about their childhoods, and jokes from the past.

They shared breath when the nightmares came and they could do nothing but cling to each other.

They shared the heat of the night, and skin like an island because they knew it might be their last.

Their sweat mingled, and their lips crashed, and they made their own violence in the dark to cancel out the violence that plagued their waking dreams.

And after, she looked up at him and his green eyes glittered like emeralds in the moonlight. It was beautiful and terrible all at once.

"Promise me that we will make it back to London because when we do, I'm going to marry you," he said, his voice like crushed silk.

She couldn't stop the tears then, because there was no way she could promise such a thing. So she simply cried into his shoulder while he held her close and whispered her name.

"Jane. Oh, Jane."

…

They brought them out from time to time to work on their injured.

They were silent and cooperative, and worked like two parts of a whole.

They observed their enemy, and gathered a strategy.

He stole the key to their cell during the twelfth week.

"Not yet," he said and hid it in the crack of their wall. "We have to wait."

…

Sick, hot.

Jane feels him rubbing her back as she retches miserably in the corner.

"It's all right. We're going to get out of here soon. I promise."

…

Thunder.

Not the kind that comes from the sky. Jane, delirious, was woken to the urgency of cool hands, and late afternoon sun slanting through the bars of their window.

Firefight. Gunshots. Explosions.

It was time.

…

He drags her by the hand through the camp, dodging from tent to tent, vehicle to vehicle. He stops and looks around, leaving her standing by the side of a building. She doesn't understand why he suddenly starts running towards her until she sees the glint of the sniper rifle in the building adjacent from them.

He tackles her just as the bullet tears through them both.

…

Jane screamed in frustration when her knees buckled under his weight for the tenth time. Her shoulder burned in agony, and her exhaustion finally got the better of her and they sank down into the sand.

"You have to go now, love," he said and then coughed, blood flecking his lips.

"I'm not," she said fiercely, tears streaking down her face. She tried to lever him up again but he cried out in pain.

"Stop, stop, Janey!" he gasped, "I'm done. I can't."

"No! No you're not!" she said and hauled him up again. She dragged him to a shady area sheltered by some scrub and a large boulder. "I'll be back for you!"

He grabbed her wrist, eyes wild and fierce. "Promise me, Jane. You _will_ make it back to London." He placed his other hand over her stomach, tears flowing freely. She brushes his dark sweaty hair out of his eyes and kisses his forehead.

"We both will," she vowed blinking away the spots and burst of light from her vision. If she was going to do this she had to go now.

…

Hot. Too hot. Tacky blood clinging to her front. She didn't know how, but she found herself face down in the sand. She wills her self to get up and keep walking.

She struggles to her feet then doubles over almost instantly. A gush of hot blood makes her thighs sticky, and the pain in her shoulder is like no other. She collapses next to the road.

_Please, God. Let me live._

…

She wakes later in another tent with unfamiliar voices all around and her whole body is a vector for pain.

Someone is trying to ask her questions, and the words sound funny…American she thinks just before the darkness swallows her again.

…

When she wakes fully lucid for the first time, six weeks have passed, and she doesn't have to ask them. She knows.

She finds that it's hard to want to live after they've taken and destroyed the only piece she had of him.

The only piece that survived.

His name is on her lips when she falls asleep that night, and in the morning everything is Grey.

…

They've ruined her. Emptied her out with nothing but a jagged scar to tell the story of her loss; a fissure from rib to hip.

Never again.

Part of her tells herself that she doesn't mind. She knows she's broken.

She knows she'll never love.

Her love bled out on the sand under the Afghanistan sun.

She is vacuous.

…

Her nightmares come in pieces, and she never knows which one it will be. Sometimes she wakes with nothing more than an ache in her chest, and sometimes she wakes screaming in phantom pain.

When this happens there is one thing that is certain above all else; one thing that is a constant that anchors her to the present. That when Jane cries out in the night, Sherlock is already there pulling her against him. Reminding her that she is no longer alone.

He brought her colours back.

He fills the emptiness inside of her that was present for so long.

He is her secret, and she cradles it close to her heart.

He is half asleep already, and just as he drops off she clutches his hand and holds it tight against her chest.

* * *

**Disclaimer: My military knowledge in general is very spotty so that adds to the vagueness. Sorry in advance. Heh.**


	9. Insomnia

**_Sherlock has a Burn Out_**.

**AN: Huzzah! Back to back chapters! We've talked about Jane's sleep disorder, and now onto Sherlock. After all he's everyone's favourite insomniac. This is my take on why headcanon dictates that he goes days and days without sleep.**

**In conjunction with the chapter 'Nowhere Hours' in part three of this series. **

* * *

**Insomnia**

(Thirteen…fourteen…no thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…no…fourteen? Thirteen?)

Sherlock's vision was doubling, and he shakes his head before peering back into his microscope.

"Sherlock?" Jane says shuffling into the kitchen.

"Jane. What are you doing up? You should be sleeping."

She huffs a laugh. "You should talk. It's nine in the morning. Have you been to bed at all?"

He pulls back from the microscope and blinks rapidly. (Morning? That can't be right…) He gets up and crosses to the sitting room and yanks back the curtains. Sure enough golden sunlight streams in through the window stabbing at his eyes. He stumbles back for a second and digs his fingers into his eye sockets.

"You bloody vampire," Jane teases and pushes a cup of tea into his hands. He stares blankly down into the swirling liquid. He was about to do something…but what was it?

"Sherlock? You okay?" Jane asks, concern colouring her voice. She's moved to the other side of him now and he jumps violently. The tea sloshes over his hand. It's no longer hot, but more of a tepid. (Is he…losing time? No it can't be. Not this again…)

"Yes! Of course!" he snaps waspishly, irritation prickling the back of his neck. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You've been starting down at your tea for ten minutes," she says slowly.

"I – what? No I haven't," he says, and the prickling feeling is slowly ebbing its way into dread.

Jane looks at him in the face, and puts her hand on his forehead, thoroughly worried now. Sherlock wants to push her away, angry at her mollycoddling, but her hand feels deliciously cool against his skin. He settles for an indignant grunt.

"You feel a bit warm. Are you ill?"

"No I feel fine," he says, and before she can pester him any more his text message alert chimes. He pulls it out of his trouser pocket and scrolls through impatiently. "Come on, Jane. Lestrade has a case for us," he says and turns away from her. Jane frowns at him, but follows anyway.

-oOo-

"Is he all right?" Lestrade asks her as they both stand there watching Sherlock examine the corpse of an elderly man. He squeezes his eyes shut for the third time and shakes his head.

"Um. I'm not sure," Jane says. "I caught him staring at his tea as if it held all the answers to the universe, and this morning he didn't even realise that a whole day had passed."

Lestrade's gaze sharpens, and he tenses his jaw. A look of recognition comes across his face. "When was the last time he slept?"

"I don't know. I don't really keep a log or anything," she tries to joke, but it falls flat when Lestrade mutters a curse under his breath. "Greg? Why, what's wrong?"

"Burn out," he says, and before Jane can ask what that even means, he's making his way over to Sherlock. He gets there just in time as Sherlock rises from his crouch and proceeds to list sideways. Lestrade steadies him just before he loses his balance. "There you go, hey?"

"Lestrade," Sherlock says urgently, his eyes wide and wild. "You're looking for the secretary. It's because of the ink, you see? The ink on the top of his sock."

"Okay, lad. We'll check it out first thing," Lestrade says gently and lowers him against the wall. Jane is taken aback at how soft Lestrade's tone is, and this makes her worry even more.

"Greg, what did you mean by 'burn out?'" she asks kneeling likewise next to him. Sherlock stares straight ahead with that catatonic expression that makes her stomach churn.

Lestrade waves a hand in front of his face. "He used to get like this when he went too long without sleep. Some sort of condition that developed after the drugs."

"You have to arrest the secretary, Lestrade," Sherlock says his eyes snapping back in focus. He squeezes them shut again and clenches his jaw.

"Oh, Sherlock. I thought you were through with this?" Lestrade says sympathetically. He cups his jaw. "Hey? Look at me, son. Let me see your eyes."

Sherlock opens them with a hiss of pain. Jane can see how dilated his pupils are, the right one slightly smaller than the left. Jane can feel a slick of nausea settle low in her stomach.

"Should we take him to hospital?" she asks.

"Nothing they can do, really," Lestrade says, and Sherlock begins to mutter under his breath, his hands clenching and unclenching in Lestrade's jacket. "He just needs to sleep."

"I don't need to sleep," he says. "It's only Wednesday. I'm fine."

"You're not fine, you git. And it's Sunday besides," Lestrade says and lays the back of his hand against his sweaty forehead.

"What's wrong with the Freak, then?" Sally Donovan says striding into the cordoned off office.

Sherlock moans and slams his eyes shut.

"Not now, Sally. Can you draw the blind, there," he says.

"Why?" she asks, baffled.

"Just do it, all right?" he barks. She jumps and hastens to pull them shut.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock calls out suddenly the panic evident in his voice.

"Right here, lad," Lestrade says.

"I – I made a mistake," he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. "Everything is too loud. All of the screens are on and I can't turn them off. Can't shut down."

"Do I need to call an ambulance?" Donovan says warily.

"No just please leave, we've got it handled. I want you to get to work on finding Mr. Godfrey's secretary."

"On it," she says, and scurries out of the room grateful to leave.

"Where's Jane?" Sherlock says suddenly, his eyes still tightly closed.

"I'm right here, Sherlock," she jumps up and places her hand on his forearm. He flinches at the touch at first, but relaxes immediately.

"Apple blossom, and spearmint," he murmurs. "Lestrade!" he says beginning to shake and shiver.

"It's okay, I've got you. we're getting you back home now so you can rest. Sound good?"

"Yes. I – I can't go out like this; the sun…" he trails off.

"Yeah I remember," Lestrade says and pulls a pair of sunglasses out of his inside pocket, and slips them over Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock grabs Lestrade's wrist. "I'm sorry," he says meekly, and Jane has never heard him sound so lost or so young. She's practically reeling.

"It's okay, son. You just caught us a murderer probably," Lestrade grins, and levers him up with an arm around his waist. Jane goes on the other side and drapes his other arm over her shoulders. They make their way down the corridor.

"Please, Lestrade. I _did_ just catch you a murderer. There's no 'probably' about it. Get h-her in for questioning and she'll tell you everything. Ink stains. It's their daughter she's trying to protect. She's only fourteen by the looks of the photo on Godfrey's desk. You have to save her, Lestrade," he says suddenly, his voice tight.

"That's what I do, innit?" he says.

"No, you have to save her from becoming like me," Sherlock says and he stops abruptly, curling his fingers tightly into the other man's shoulder as he looks at him. "You have to save her from becoming like me," he repeats. "The probability of the girl falling into a life of drugs or prostitution has increased tenfold with the absence of both parents."

"Hey? I won't let nothing like that happen. We'll get the girl a _guardian ad litem_ straight away. You remember Mrs. Heston, yeah? She's the best."

"She's the best because I picked her," Sherlock says, and Lestrade laughs.

"How could I forget? There see? It's all sorted," he says and they continue to make their way out of the building and towards Lestrade's police cruiser.

Jane is in a daze as they somehow manage to deposit Sherlock in the back. "I'll sit with him," she says at Lestrade's concerned glance.

"All right. Probably for the best. Wouldn't want him to forget where he was. That would send him into a tizzy."

"What do you mean?"

"When he's like this, sometimes he forgets he's through with all that. Sometimes he has flash backs of his dark days. S'why he hates police cars."

Jane doesn't need to ask any more questions. If anyone knows of flashbacks, it's her. She slides into the seat beside him.

Sherlock's forehead is pressed to the window, and he mumbles something under his breath.

"What's that, Sherlock?" she says leaning in close.

"I don't want to go back to rehab," he whispers.

"You're not, love," Jane says and pulls him to her so he can rest his head on her shoulder.

"Jane?" he asks. "You're here?"

"Yes. See? Everything's going to be all right."

"Where are we going?"

"Home. Where you are gonna sleep for at least twenty hours. And when you wake up I'm going to kill you for letting it get this bad," she says softly. He chuckles at this and curls into her.

"Jane?" he says after a moment.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"You called me love."

"Did I? Must have just slipped out," she says a little surprised. It just felt right at the time. She didn't give it much thought, really. "Does it bother you?"

The only reply she receives is a small hum and a shuttered sigh.

She called him love.

For the first time in a long time she actually meant it.

Well fuck. What is _that_ supposed to mean?

For the rest of the ride back to Baker Street, Jane contemplates her enigma of a flatmate, her cheek resting atop his head as he breathes deeply against her.

* * *

**AN: A huge thank you to everyone who has read and taken the time to comment. You guys add fuel to the flame for sure.**


	10. In Any Capacity

_**It's a late night, and for once, The British Government has nothing to do.**_

**AN: Updates galore! (Seriously - no life.) (And I kinda sorta love you guys.) I thought it would be fun to throw some of Mycroft's POV in here.**

**In conjunction with the chapter 'Nowhere Hours' in part three of this series.**

* * *

**In Any Capacity**

Mycroft Holmes flicks on the small monitor and reclines back in his office chair with a tumbler of scotch resting on his knee. The Davers Reports were wrapping up nicely, and his phone conference with the Chinese Prime Minister was postponed until further notice. So, for the first time in what felt like a long while, he found himself with nothing to do.

It was time to see what his little brother was up to. After all, someone needed to test the new model surveillance cameras MI5 recently came out with.

He watches the screen as Sherlock sways with the music of his violin. From the way the man threads himself through the phrases of the piece, Mycroft can tell it's something of Debussy's*. Sherlock always did have a fondness for that particular composer, and Mycroft wishes he could hear it. (The audio was off, he'd have to make a note for IT.)

He wonders where Jane Watson is for a moment before he glances at the clock as realises it is quite late. She must be asleep, then. Which was a shame, really, seeing as how she was just as interesting as Sherlock to watch. She was a novel concept. Someone so ordinary on the outside, and yet so full of surprises. She was a contradiction, like Sherlock said. With one hand she can heal the sick, and the other she can shoot a man between the eyes from over five hundred yards. He's read her dossier. She could have made it as a sniper, a good one too, but chose instead to tend to the wounded. The combination made for someone both very compassionate, and very lethal.

And there's also the no-nonsense way she handles his brother, which always makes for a good laugh. He's not wrong often, but for once he's glad he was about Jane. Daresay it, she was even _good_ for him. Albeit in some weird, backwards way.

Ah well. It seemed like nothing particularly interesting was going on tonight, and he goes to switch off the monitor.

He pauses when he sees Sherlock suddenly stop, his bow mid stroke for a moment before starting up again. He plays for a bit before stopping again, and this time he actually lowers the violin and faces the rest of the sitting room. His gaze lingers on the hall just outside. Mycroft zooms in.

He watches as his brother cocks his head to the side as if listening intently for something. Sherlock gives a little start and he makes an abortive movement forward before he stops himself. Mycroft leans forward in his chair when Sherlock closes his eyes and his lips begin to move. Upon further inspection, Mycroft can just make out that he appears to be counting. But counting for what?

When Sherlock reaches about thirty, his eyes fly open and he all but tosses the violin on the chair before rushing to the doorway. He pauses, leaning against the jamb for a second before whirling around, his dressing gown flaring out around him. He hurries off in the direction of the kitchen for a moment, and out of the sight of the camera. Alarmed, Mycroft leans back in his chair and fumbles for his mobile. Something had Sherlock spooked, and his sudden sentinel-like behaviour spells trouble. Mycroft is just about through with a text sending one of his men over to Baker Street to check for possible intruders when Sherlock comes back into view.

He looks more agitated than before, and clutched tightly in his hand is, — not a weapon but…a glass of water. (What?)

What's even more bewildering is the fact that now Sherlock is pacing, lips moving as he talks to himself all the while. Every now and then he stops and holds the water out in front of him, and then shakes his head in frustration before starting the whole thing again.

Suddenly Sherlock stops one last time and turns sharply in the direction of whatever noise caught his attention. A split second later, he flies out of the sitting room and into the hall. Mycroft just manages to see the tails of his robe whipping behind him as he bounds up the stairs to Jane's room.

(Jane's room? What was he —? Ah yes.)

Jane must be having a nightmare. Which was odd.

Well it wasn't odd for her to be having night terrors, no. In fact it was warranted given the PTSD and the (former) therapist. What was _odd_ was the fact that Sherlock was…perturbed by the matter.

No not only perturbed. (Anxious, flustered, worried.) _Concerned._ For her. If the water was anything to go by. And the pacing.

Mycroft is yet again surprised, and he leans back in his chair. He brings his hands, prayer-like up against his lips as he contemplates the now empty sitting room.

This was truly unprecedented. Jane has once again, wormed her way into his brother's life and has all but dug her hooks in. Yes, he admitted there was some sort of allure at the beginning. She was a walking contradiction, and Sherlock always loved a good puzzle, but this? _Sentiment?_It was uncalled for.

Mycroft thinks back to the last time Sherlock _cared_ for anyone other than himself. He will never forget how far his brother fell after his friendship with that Trevor boy ended so tragically. There was a time when Sherlock was hooked up to tubes and IV lines where Mycroft thought he would never come back to him.

It was when he was shaking apart at the seams during another detox where Mycroft taught him how to keep himself apart from such things; how to protect himself.

And now - now Sherlock was in jeopardy of making the same mistake all over again. And Mycroft wouldn't let him.

He types out the text he knows will set things right:

_Caring is not an advantage.  
M_

He's just about ready to send the message when Sherlock comes back into the sitting room. Mycroft watches as Sherlock paces, slower this time, a hand rubbing his chin in consternation. He lowers himself slowly onto the sofa and presses his palms together under his chin.

It's his conflicted expression that tells Mycroft that Sherlock knows the predicament he's let his heart fall into. He rests easy at the knowledge that he will make the obvious, and practical decision and get rid of the problem. Simple. Clean. He taught his brother well, after all.

The Sherlock on the screen leans forward, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He looks up, his eyes landing on something familiar on the mantle.

Just then the audio from the hidden camera crackles to life just in time for Mycroft to hear his brother's worn and resigned sigh.

He's made his decision then. Good. He picks up his scotch.

(It was good right?)

(Of course it was. It was a pragmatic solution.)

(Simple. Clean. Better for everyone involved, surely.)

Wrong.

He snatches up his mobile.

_deletedeletedelete_

_I'm sure there another way for —_

_deletedelete_

_Don't you think —?_

_deletedelete_

_You are better with her —_

_dele –_

(Wait. Yes that's right, isn't it?)

_You are better with her, you know. I wouldn't make any hasty decisions especially not having slept on it first.  
M_

_SEND._

There was something about this…about Jane and Sherlock together that made some sort of sense, and he would be damned to see them torn asunder before he figured out what exactly that something was.

Mycroft watches as Sherlock marches up to the bookshelf to the left of the mantle and yanks out the hidden camera, an expression of fury on his face that is almost comical. Suddenly he gets a screen full of a toilet bowl just before the feed shorts out and the monitor fills with static. With a chuckle he shuts it off.

Ah well.

He pours another scotch, content his little brother will make the right decision.

* * *

***Debussy's Violin Concerto is what I was going for. I like this piece because it reminds me of what Sherlock's mind would sound like, full of volatile shifts and epiphanies. It's rather strange, and I'm pretty sure he would like it for this reason. Any way. Hope you liked this chapter even though it was short. :D**


	11. Revenge

_**Don't get mad. Get even. **_

**AN: If I haven't told you guys how fantastic you are, I should more often. I love the feedback you guys have been giving me on this, and it really boosts my spirits especially as of late. So thanks to all of you who have commented or even just have dropped by and read. It makes me smile especially when the days can be really rotten sometimes. xxHoney**

**In conjunction with the chapter 'Musical Cabs' in part three of this series.**

* * *

**Revenge**

_Mr. Science Man – 7:08 PM_  
_I suppose you think this is funny?_  
_SH_

_Sent – 7:25 PM  
I do, yeah._

_Mr. Science Man – 7:48 PM  
Well?_

_Sent – 7: 49 PM  
well what?_

_Mr. Science Man – 7:49 PM_  
_Are you going to do something about it?_  
_SH_

_Sent – 7:52 PM  
oh I suppose. eventually. I'm having a pint with greg right now._

_Mr. Science Man – 7:52 PM_  
_You're just going to leave me like this for the foreseeable future, then?_  
_SH_

_Sent – 7:53 PM  
problem?_

_Mr. Science Man – 7:53 PM_  
_Yes. I don't think you can imagine how inconvenient this is._  
_SH_

_Sent – 7:54 PM  
you want to know what's inconvenient, Sherlock? an ASBO. that's what. I'll be back in twenty minutes, keep your shirt on._

-oOo-

Sherlock stares down at his phone in his left hand, dismayed as he sits at the table. For the tenth time he tries to dislodge his right hand from where it is curled — stuck with industrial strength adhesive — around a glass beaker. A lovely prank by his wily flatmate. Revenge from when she was mistakenly blamed for tagging the side of the National Gallery. (How childish. It wasn't anyone's fault really. Well, aside from Raz.)

He glares at no one in particular, and decides to observe the coagulation rate of thawed blood under his microscope. He goes to adjust the height of the eye pieces, and over corrects with his left causing them to jab painfully into his eye sockets. He pushes it away in frustration and goes over to sulk on the sofa.

Jane comes back about thirty minutes later in a disgustingly good mood, and he curls on his side in a huff.

"Did you have a good night with _Greg?"_ he grumbles to the back of the sofa.

"I did," she says hanging up her jacket. (She's just _oozing_ her smug superiority.)

"I hope you know your little prank probably cost a murderer. The experiment I was working on was delicate and extremely time sensitive, and now it's ruined," he sniffs disdainfully.

"I'm sure you can repeat it, and all will be right with the world," Jane says.

"I assume you have the solvent?" Sherlock snips.

"Yes. I wouldn't just leave you in this state. The fate of murderers and whatnot," she chuckles and skips up the stairs to her room. She comes back a moment later. "Come on, up you get," she says and prods him in the back. He whips around angrily, shooting her his most murderous glare. It doesn't have the desired effect, however, seeing as how she immediately bursts out laughing.

_"What_ is so funny?" Sherlock says through his teeth.

"Nothing, nothing! Not a thing," she says wiping her eyes. "C'mon, let's get you sorted." He huffs and follows her into the kitchen. She turns on the tap to warm, and stops up the sink giggling all the time.

"Are we even now? Did you get it sufficiently out of your system?" Sherlock says allowing her to submerge his hand in the warm soapy water, beaker and all.

"Aw, I was just having a bit of fun. No harm no foul."

"For you maybe. No one likes to be proven the fool," he says imperiously. She takes his hand out and applies a generous amount of the solvent to the seam between his hand and the glass.

"Ah, now you're getting it," she says pointedly. "By the way, you're still coming with me to court. Don't think I've forgotten."

"Surely I've been punished enough," he grumbles. She tries to lift one of his fingers from the glass, and he hisses in pain when his skin starts to pull. She dunks in back in the water. "Besides. It seems as if your court date has been cancelled."

"Cancelled? How do you mean? They don't just cancel court," Jane says working his fingers somewhat loose under the water.

"They do if they've lost your records," Sherlock says casually. Jane stops and looks up at him.

"Lost my records?"

"Something to do with a clumsy security system and an underpaid clerk," he says.

"Did you just —?"

"Please let's not call attention to the fact that I currently am indebted to my brother," he sighs.

"Actually, I was wanting to call to attention the fact you did something incredibly nice for someone else," Jane says only half joking. There was a sincerity and gratitude in her voice that caught him by surprise. (The ASBO apparently bothered her more than she let on.)

"Yes well…on occasion I have been known to — OW!" Sherlock yelps mid sentence as Jane tugs particularly hard on the beaker. "What are you trying to do, strip the flesh from my palm?!"

"Sorry! It's a lot more stubborn than I thought," Jane says bringing his hand up to eye level. She pulls again.

"AHH! Stop. _Doing._ That," he snarls and tries to snatch his hand away.

"Don't be such a girl," Jane says holding fast to his wrist. "It'll only sting for a moment. Like a bandage."

"No! No definitely not. Why don't we soak it some more?"

"Sherlock. It'll be real quick I promise. Just think of something to distract you," she says.

"Like what?"

"I don't know…the periodic table?"

"Or how about how many nerve ending are in the human hand, and how the most sensitive — OW dammit Jane! I was being facetious!" he yells again. "It's not working!"

"Think of something else then!" she says becoming equally frustrated.

"Like what? I can think up to seven different things at once and I _still_ am wont to get bored on occasion."

"Then shut your brain off for a change."

"Please. There's nothing short of a _coma_ that would —" Sherlock's sentence is abruptly cut off when Jane suddenly stands up on her tip-toes and kisses him on the cheek. (Soft, warm, slightly parted. A whisper of skin and lemon lip balm. Awfully close to his mouth. Actually practically the corner of his mouth. If he had moved his head just a fraction with the height difference it would have made it so —)

"There, see? Easy peasy," Jane says and sets the beaker down on the counter. He looks down stupidly at his now empty hand.

"How did you…?" he trails off. She's not really paying attention now, and goes about preparing tea. He leans up against the counter and watches her, content in simply observing how she methodically pours and steeps the tea, making up his cup first (always first, two sugars and a splash of milk) before her own. (She doesn't use sugar in her tea even though she always dips her pinky in the dish and licks the white crust off the pad of her finger. Why does she do this? He doesn't know. A habit picked up from childhood most likely. But really it's because it's Jane. Just Jane. It shouldn't be fascinating, but it is.)

"Sorry about that by the way," she says joining him against the counter. She inspects his hand and grimaces in sympathy at the redness of his palm. "And…thank you. Really, Sherlock, I mean it."

"It really wasn't a hardship," Sherlock says and sips his tea. "Besides, it's always fun picturing the look on Mycroft's face when he realises he has to do bureaucratic leg work. Annoys him to no end."

"Well what ever the case, thank you," Jane says, and they stand there for a moment in companionable silence. Finally Jane turns to him with a sheepish expression. "I should probably mention that you might want to go look in the mirror," she says and bites her lip furtively.

Sherlock glares at her suspiciously before putting his mug down and making his way to the bathroom. He groans when he sees two blackened circles ringing his eyes. Shoe polish it looks like, surreptitiously smeared around the eyepieces of his microscope no doubt.

"JANE!" he bellows, and is only met with the sound of her uproarious laughter.

* * *

**Seriously, though. You guys are awesome. I hope you liked this chapter even though it's a little short.**


	12. Another Forkful

_**Jane does her own experiments.**_

**AN: Hah so ever since I watched the Blind Banker and I had the idea for the restaurant scene, I've always been obsessed with Jane feeding Sherlock. I hope you think this is as cute as I do. Enjoy.**

**In conjunction with the chapter 'Partners' in part three of this series.**

* * *

**Another Forkful**

When Sherlock was on a case, everything else went to the wayside. Sleep, sometimes hygiene, and most importantly, food. As a medical professional, this last one rankled Jane to no end.

Apparently Sherlock was under the impression that digestion slowed down his thought process, which was utter nonsense as it were. But he still cast all logic aside, claming his body and its needs was nothing more than 'transport.' No amount of nagging or pestering or arguing would change his mind. So…Jane had to get creative.

It was during a particularly grueling case that she stumbled upon it actually, and in all essence it was really quite brilliant. Because there was something to this whole 'transport' lark after all. Simply, Sherlock ignored the demands of his body, but his body didn't ignore its demands. If his growling stomach was any indication.

They were both frayed around the edges when she decided to test her theory, and right when he was in the middle of a sulk, she ordered takeaway.

"It doesn't make any sense, Jane," he says dragging his fingers through his hair for the tenth time.

Jane opens the container of rice and sets it on the table between them. "Start from the beginning. What do you know?" she says. He growls in frustration while she opens the other container of curry.

"Dax Leigh, 47, accountant from Leicester originally. Came to London on holiday," he muses aloud. Jane forks a cashew, and munches on it, waiting for her chance. "Died in his hotel room seemingly without cause."

"But you think you know who did it?" she asks.

"I don't think I know. I _do_ know," he says. "It was the sister."

"The sister who's been dead for ten years now?" she says. It's the same question she asked forty minutes ago.

_"Yes,"_ he groans. Jane swears she can actually hear the wheels beginning to rev and turn in Sherlock great brain. She stabs a piece of lamb. "It has to be her based on the picture of her he used to carry around in his wallet. It was due to some misplaced guilt that he carried it, but when he suddenly found out she was alive all this time he felt betrayed and threw it into the garbage," Sherlock says as he scrutinises the photos of the crime scene. Jane knows he's talking out loud to himself more than for her benefit at this point, becoming more and more absorbed with the case. He mutters something else under his breath, and Jane figures it's a good time as any to go for the kill.

She brings the forkful of lamb and rice up to his lips.

At first he doesn't seem to notice, and she's about to put her fork down abandoning it as a lost cause. But then at the last second, Sherlock turns his head, and captures the morsel between his teeth, not having taken his eyes off the photographs once. He chews a few times, and then swallows. It's all she can do to keep from doing a victory jig right there in the kitchen. However, if she's learned anything from Sherlock, it's that any good experiment begs to be repeated, so she tries again, this time with a piece of garlic naan.

Just like before, Sherlock absently takes a bite when she offers it to him.

The best part of this is he's not even aware he's doing it, and she has to fight back the giggles as he actually makes a soft humming noise of subconscious approval in the back of his throat. He swallows the naan, and she feeds him another bit of lamb. Conclusion: Sherlock might not think he needs to eat, but his body begs to differ.

"Jane!" he says suddenly, and she nearly drops her fork thinking she's been made.

"What?" she says trying not to look too guilty. She crams the prepared fork load into her own mouth, stabbing her tongue in the process. Sherlock looks at her suspiciously as her eyes begin to water, but decides not to say anything about her odd behaviour. Instead he brings a picture up to her face.

"What does that look like to you?" he says pointing to a small square wrapper among various other rubbish recovered at the scene.

"Er," she swallows the bite painfully. "Nicotine patch?"

"Yes I thought so too, but if you look closer you'll see it's actually an anti-emetic patch. A strong one too." Jane takes the picture from him and squints.

"You're right. You can only get these from a doctor," she says.

Sherlock snatches back the photo and glares at it, his eyes flicking back and forth over the picture. He stares at it for a solid minute, and Jane waits to be absolutely sure he's lost in his own head again before trying one last time.

It might be a bit ambitious, but she didn't join the Army for nothing, so she brings the mug of tea up to hover in front of his mouth.

At first nothing happens, and she thinks that maybe this may have been pushing it but then his lips part, and she cautiously presses the rim between them. Then she slowly begins to tilt it up. She smiles as he slurps once, twice, and when she pulls it away he actually has a moustache curling up at the corners of his mouth. His tongue darts out and swipes at it as he rifles through the notes again.

"Look!" he says. His face lights up in what Jane likes to call his 'eureka expression'. "Leigh suffered from chronic low blood pressure."

Jane takes the notes and skims the contents. "A high dose of scopolamine could cause problems with hypotension," she conceded.

"Would it be possible to trigger a seizure?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes, actually. It's not unheard of. And if no one was able to get to him, his heart could have simply stopped. You think that's how she did it?"

"I do. It makes perfect sense," he says and gets up to retrieve his coat. "Grab your things, Jane. We're going to go catch us a naughty nurse," he says with a crooked smile. His wit is diminished severely due to the spot of tea still on his upper lip. She rolls her eyes.

"I don't think you realise how lame that sounded," Jane says, and wipes the smudge away with a napkin. He scowls, and turns on his heel.

"Come on. The sooner we wrap this up, the sooner we can eat. I'm famished," he says, and Jane can't stop the grin from spreading across her face as she jogs down the stairs after him.


	13. BONUS -- Three Minutes

_**Set during the chapter 'Partners' in part three of the series. Jane's POV.**_

**AN: So I got a request if I could write the CPR scene from Jane's point of view and if I could maybe put it in 'Afters.' So this is what I came up with, and I hope you guys like it! Again a huge thanks to you guys who have told me how much you like this series. I am very grateful! xxHoney. **

* * *

**BONUS - Three Minutes**

_One._

Jane knocks over the vase when she ducks through the window. It shatters to the ground, and she hears the sound of hurried footsteps pounding down the stairs and through the front door.

"Sherlock?" she calls out. She is met with a deafening silence, and her gun is already out of its holster. Her shoes crunch over the shards of ceramic, and the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Something wasn't right, and her instinct told her to be vigilant. She felt her skin begin to crawl with that all too familiar feeling, and her senses went on high alert. A trickle of sweat rolls down between her shoulder blades, and she looks beyond to the ominous sitting room. She knew that whatever it was would be waiting for her there.

She levels her gun straight out in front of her, shoulders squared and jaw set, and rounds the corner ready to shoot at the first sign of threat. What she sees instead makes her blood run cold.

There, tied to the radiator is Sherlock, one hand curled under the silk cloth wrapped mercilessly around his neck in attempt to tear at it before he lost consciousness.

She shoves the gun into her waist band and rushes over to his side in an instant, forgetting to breathe herself.

"Hang on, _hang on!"_ Jane pleads as she scrambles to try and loosen the makeshift noose. His lips, usually a pale pink, are an alarming shade of blue. She tugs with all her might at the knot, her knuckles bleeding white.

_Two._

Finally she manages to loosen the cloth, and Sherlock slumps the rest of the way to the floor, a dark line of bruising already beginning to bloom on his throat. She lays him down, and checks his pulse. There is none, and for a second her vision fades and tunnels out as all of the air in the room is seemingly sucked out of existence.

(No. Not dead, he can't be dead. Please God.)

She starts compressions immediately, digging the heels of her palms into his sternum where what little of his remaining oxygenated blood can be pumped through the rest of his body. She knows that every second counts, and she internally tracks the time with the beats of her heart. She knows that permanent brain damage begins to occur around the five minute mark, and she tires not to think about how many people she's lost in just over three.

Her clinical metronome ticks off the compressions, and she swoops down and captures his lips attempting to breathe for him again and again.

_Three._

She starts on her second round of compressions, pressing harder and harder all the while. The clock inside of her that knows just how many seconds Sherlock has gone without air pounds into her own aching chest, and the alarm bells in her head are at their peak. She can feel her arms shaking from the effort, but she digs in even harder trying not to watch as his chest is jarred over and over, yet still refuses to move.

_Please God!_

She's not sure but she thinks she's pleading aloud at this point.

The third minute is reaching its end.

She presses harder, and covers his mouth with her own.

(Don't think.)

_"Afghanistan or Iraq?"_

(No. Don't remember.)

_"You're a doctor…any good?"_

(Don't do this, Jane. Keep breathing for him.)

_"That was…amazing." — "You really think so?"— "Of course it was. Really quite extraordinary."_

(Compressions. Breaths. Don't think.)

_"This is my friend, Jane Watson."_

(Blue lips. Pale face. Still, oh so still.)

_The strains of his violin as they waft up to her room._

_The experiments in the kitchen._

_The body parts in the fridge._

_The way he takes his tea._

_The way he bites his lip before he realises something profound._

_Dozens of paper flowers. Blue and yellow. For her._

_His face, so eager and full of life as he takes her hand._

_His voice when he came to her in the night._

_"Jane?...Are you all right?"_

_In the darkness he curls his arms around her waist gathering her close to his broad chest, and she can feel his heartbeat echo throughout her even in her dreams._

_"…You're safe…I'm here, remember?"_

"Breathe you stupid idiot!" the tears flow freely down her face, and they taste of salt.

_His eyes, gold and blue, blue and gold as he looked at her with something akin to wonder. "You're not useless. What I mean is…you are far from obsolete in all that you do…"_

Her arms are getting tired. Three minutes has come and gone. She continues to dig her palms into the centre of his chest, willing his heart to beat.

_"And all you don't do…"_

(Please, God.)

_"You are necessary…"_

"Come on, Sherlock! _Breathe!"_

(What makes you think you can do this to me? What makes you think you can irrevocably change my life and then leave?)

She twines her fingers into his hair and grips his head on either side. Her arms, like jelly, can barely hold her up.

She covers his mouth with her own one last time.

His lips are soft and cold, and she closes her eyes…

and breathes for them both.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

(Don't leave. Never leave.)

Blue and gold. Gold and blue.

He opens his eyes with a gasp.


	14. A Bit of a Kip

_**Jane does a trick.**_

**AN: Hey all. Fanfiction is being a tool when it comes to me uploading, so I've been a bit behind. So I have this chapter and another for the Colour of Light Part III so never fear! Thanks to all who have followed and told me how much they are loving this fic. I wasn't expecting this type of feedback!**

* * *

**A Bit of a Kip**

The first time it happened it was at a crime scene. Sherlock was in the middle of his whirlwind deductions when he stops suddenly, his face breaking out in a grin.

"Oh now, look at that," he says, and Lestrade's head snaps up from scribbling in his notebook.

"What?" he says looking 'round. But Sherlock's not even paying attention to the crime scene anymore, much too interested in his curious flatmate. He steps around Lestrade and walks up to Jane who is leaning against the door jamb…fast asleep.

"Quiet, you'll wake her," Sherlock hisses as Lestrade comes over to stand beside him.

"Is she really asleep?" he asks, his lips quirking up in a half-amused smile.

"Yes. I should think so," Sherlock says moving to stand directly in front of her. He peers into her face. (A brief flicker of REM.)

"When was the last time she slept?"

"When did this case start?"

"Three days ago?!" Lestrade says. "Christ, you'll run her intro the ground."

"M'fine, Greg," Jane says with her eyes still closed. "Just having a bit of a kip."

Sherlock waves his hand back and forth in front of her face. This receives an annoyed grumble from Jane.

(Eyes still closed, but senses on high alert. Brilliant. What a _brilliant_ trick.)

"Go do…the thing. I'll be right here then we can go, all right?" she says adjusting herself so she's a bit more comfortable, crossing her arms over her chest, eyes still closed in determination.

_"How_ do you do that?" Sherlock asks with fascination. "You're actually sleeping, they are micro sleeps, but they are restorative nonetheless. However you remain on the crest of your subconscious, constantly aware of all that's around you. Is it some form of meditation?"

Jane's eyes flash open and she glares at him. "Tell you what. You solve this bloody thing and I'll _teach you."_

"It's an Army trick, isn't it? You taught yourself to combat sleep."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" he says.

"Can you do your deductions from here?"

"Of course," he says with a puzzled expression. "Why?"

"You look more comfortable," she says and grabs him by the coat and shoves him against the door frame. Before he has a chance to protest, she leans against him in the same pose, her head coming to rest against his shoulder. "I suggest you solve this thing so we can go."

"Really, Jane. This is quite childish," Sherlock says. Jane doesn't say anything, and Lestrade suppresses a chuckle behind his hand. He rolls his eyes. "Jane I know you can hear me."

"Mmph."

"Okay but you better tell me how you do that," Sherlock says, and launches into his deductions rapid fire.

* * *

**Ever since the last chapter, I've been thinking about how fun it was to write based on a request. So if anyone has an idea for Jane and Sherlock that they want to see I am open for suggestions. Especially with NaNoWriMo coming up. :D Thanks again for reading.**


	15. Violin

_**Sherlock's violin is an extension of himself. **_

**AN: Hello folks. So this chapter is awesome in the sense that it is "supposed" to be linked to various bits of music to give you all a picture, but fanfic is prettly lame when it comes to html so if you want to read the interactive version you can read it on AO3 under this link (replace the dot org): archiveofourown[dot org] /works/914021/chapters/1935658**

* * *

**Violin**

Jane knows that when she hears Beethoven, Sherlock is thinking about something complex. The severity of the phrases reminds her of the methodical vigour he uses to attack a problem that frustrates him. He is forceful and almost violent in his acerbity, as well as cutting and precise in his calculations. During such times like the brutality of Beethoven's Fifth, she knows to keep her breadth. And during the times in which he plays something more contemplative, like 'Concerto in D Major' for instance, she knows that he won't speak for days until he figures out what ever it is that has him hung up. She provides sandwiches and Hobnobs with tea in these cases so he can keep his strength up.

When she hears Mozart, Jane knows that it is due to a flurry of boredom just around the corner. The mercurial and transient shifts lend an almost mischievous atmosphere to their sitting room, and she knows to keep anything of hers he can get into away, and changes the password on her lap top. Jane doesn't mind so much when she hears Mozart, however, because it forces her out of the hum drum of life that she falls into when all she has is the clinic to look forward to between cases. She takes the time during Mozart's '40th Symphony in G Minor' thinking of ways to keep them both from falling into a fugue.

When Jane hears Tchaikovsky, it is usually after she wakes up from a nightmare in the dead of night and makes her way down to the sitting room. She learns to associate 'Violin Concerto Op. 35' with the crackling fire and the stillness of three am. And with the smell of Sherlock as he leads her back to her room when her eyes finally begin to droop. She learns to follow the movement of the Nutcracker's 'Pas de Deux' back into slumber.

Later, she figures out Bach is almost always for Mrs. Hudson even though the repetition drives him insane. He plays it for her every time she comes up to the flat just to hear her sigh and pat his cheek. He smiles when he thinks no one is looking when she says, "That was lovely, dear," and Jane can't help but smile too because she almost always makes them a special cake afterwards.

Occasionally, when she comes home Jane can hear the frightful and dissonant sounds of Bartok, or really bad Vivaldi as Sherlock attempts to chase Mycroft out of the flat. The latter usually has the desired effect seeing as how it is quite impossible to talk over the trills and runs of Vivaldi in the middle of 'Winter.' She savours the look on Mycroft's face as he breezes past her.

There are things Jane wishes she didn't hear, however.

When it's Mendelssohn, Sherlock is in the middle of a fierce bout of melancholy, and it's all Jane can do to get him to say more than one word to her. She doesn't like seeing him like this, but the way he plays 'Concerto in E Minor' makes her heart clench, and she can't tear her eyes away from him as he bends and sways, the notes seeming to curl around his frame like smoke. She knows during these times, he confides his deepest secrets to his violin, and if she let him, he would play and play for days until his wrists were swollen and his fingers raw. During times like these, she waits for the struggle of a drowning vibrato before she gently takes the revered instrument, and guides him to the sofa with his head in her lap until he returns to himself.

And then there is Debussy. Jane doesn't really know what it means yet when Sherlock plays Debussy's 'Violin Sonata'. It is fast changing like quicksilver, and she didn't think it was possible to fit so many volatile emotions into one piece. She doesn't know what Sherlock is necessarily feeling during these times, but she feels as if she's about to explode when she listens to it, as if her chest couldn't possibly contain all of her warring thoughts and feelings.

Which, maybe that was the point of the piece, she realises as she sits in the armchair with her cup of tea, and long forgotten book as he pulls the bow across the strings. This man before her was greater than anyone she had ever met, and couldn't be contained much less explained in words. It breaks her heart when she realises that Sherlock had to learn a long time ago to express himself through music when the world refused to listen.

In that instance, she loves and hates Sherlock's violin.

She loves that it is an extension of him, and if anyone were to watch him play there would be no doubt it was and extension of his soul as well.

However, she hates that this is his only voice, and her only insight into this enigmatic man that she is growing more desperate to want to know.

She wants to know what he thinks, and she always, _always_ wants to know what he feels. Because she knows the lie he tells himself and the others around him is just that: a lie.

He's not cold and unfeeling.

Perhaps the problem is he feels _too much._

And isn't that a beautiful thought?


	16. He Carries Her

_**The five times Sherlock carries Jane... **_

**AN: Hello friends! This chapter is a bit longer to make up for my shorter ones, and I hope you all like it. This is a five-times story, and the plus one will be added eventually so be looking for it! I've had this idea for a while and I am glad I finally got around to it. Oh and be looking for some more Bonus Chapters by some of you lovely readers!**

**Thanks as always for reading. xxHoney**

**In conjunction with the chapter 'Impossible' in part three of this series.**

* * *

**He Carries Her**

1.

The first time Sherlock gathers Jane into his arms is after that night at the train tracks when she had toppled over backwards (partially his fault) and hit her head on the metal rail. She had been so exhausted in the cab that she promptly fell asleep against him, and he couldn't bring himself to wake her when they arrived back at 221. (It was only being efficient in the end. Didn't want her falling down the stairs to the flat and making everything worse.)

So after he pays the cabbie, he ducks down and pulls her close to him. He slings one of her arms around the back of his neck, and picks her up. She subconsciously clutches him tighter, her head resting against his shoulder. He adjusts them slightly when he is fully upright, and is surprised at her small yet solid frame. He's momentarily distracted by the citrus and rose scent of her shampoo, and before he realises it, he ducks his head so he can bury his nose in the soft hair at her crown.

He shakes his head a little. (What was he doing?)

Good thing he called Mrs. Hudson. He was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to manage the door on his own.

2.

The second time happened just after the first, and was rather amusing.

Sherlock was in the sitting room playing his violin when he hears a loud thud coming from the hall towards his bedroom. He puts it back in its case, and goes to investigate.

Jane is sitting in the hall with her knees tented up, an accusatory glare leveled in his direction. Her hair is a tangled mess, and she still has creases on her face from one of his pillows.

"Morning."

"Where's my _phone?"_ she says.

"I assume you want to call your new boss and tell him you're egregiously late for your first day," he says and unbuttons his cuffs. (Clearly she stood up too fast, and is having trouble balancing if the haze in her eyes is anything to go by. There's only one thing for it.) "You needn't bother, I talked to _Sampson_ earlier." He wrinkles his nose a bit at the thought of Jane's new boss. He finishes rolling up his sleeves, trying to remain casual.

"What? You talked to Stephen? Why? Why didn't you get me when he called?" she says, and pulls herself to a somewhat standing position. (Stubborn. She's clearly still dizzy.) Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"You were sleeping. And besides, I was the one who called him," he says and takes a subtle step towards her. (Yes she hit her head, but honestly.)

_"Why?"_ she says, and Sherlock just looks at her with a look that says – _Really?_ – before swinging her up into his arms again. "What the _hell_ are you doing?" she says and pushes at his chest.

"Shut up this is faster and a lot less painful than watching you bumble about. Now stop moving or I'll drop you on your head again," he says and glares down at her. (He glares, but really he's more amused than he has any right to be.)

Jane purses her lips and blows a little breath out of her nose before crossing her arms. He smiles as she scowls at the floor, and notices she still smells like her shampoo, but under the surface, she also smells a little like him. He can't explain the little thrill that runs down his spine as he carries her (slower than he's able) to the sitting room. Despite her irritation, Sherlock doesn't miss the way she minutely relaxes against his hold.

3.

The third time Sherlock carried Jane it was considerably less amusing for all involved.

"Here you go, Sherlock," Molly says and hands him a coffee. "Black two sugars."

"Thank you Molly," he says and adjusts the focus on the microscope. (The magnification on this was amazing, he would have to see about upgrading his.)

"Oh Jane. They were having a special so I got you one too," Molly says.

"Molly, you shouldn't have," Jane says politely.

"Clearly she did," Sherlock grumbles wanting to put and end to the useless small talk.

Jane and Molly ignore him. "Really, thank you. That was kind of you," Jane says and takes a sip.

"No worries!" Molly says, a blush creeping up her neck and across her cheeks. "Tuesdays are half off on the flavour of the week."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. (Really — silence. Was that too much to ask?)

Molly goes back to what she was doing, occasionally typing on her computer. It's silent (blessedly) for a few moments, before Jane clears her throat.

Sherlock looks up at her, and sees that she's frowning down at her coffee. She clears her throat again.

"Molly…" she says, and pops off the plastic lid. She swirls her drink a little.

"Mm?" Molly responds distractedly.

"What —" she clears her throat a third time, and Sherlock sits up straighter in his seat. (Concerned timbre, irritated throat, glassy eyes, pale…too pale.) "What did you say was in my coffee?"

"Sorry?" Molly says finally looking up at her. "Oh, er, just milk like you like. But the flavour of the week was hazelnut. I hope that's all right?"

Jane's eyes grow wide, and she nearly drops her paper cup. Sherlock is at her side in an instant already having leapt to his feet.

"Oh…oh no," Jane murmurs and puts a hand on her clammy brow as she stands from her own stool. Sherlock grips her elbow just as she sways slightly.

"What? What happened?" Molly says, frightened.

"She's allergic to hazelnuts, Molly," Sherlock snaps, and begins ushering Jane towards the corridor. "and you have just managed to give her a coffee with the very thing that can send her into anaphylaxis."

"Sh-Sherlock," Jane admonishes, her breath starting to come out in a wheeze. "Not her fault."

"Oh god I am so sorry!" Molly cries pushing open the doors to the lab for them as Sherlock drags Jane towards the lift. "I didn't know!"

"Not your fault," Jane tries to reassure, but is interrupted by a cough. "Sherlock. A&E. Epi – epinephrine," she says to him. Sherlock notices a dark red rash splotching her throat and cheeks and he nods sharply. (Lucky for them they were already in a hospital.)

"The lift's broken!" Molly says miserably. (Oh _of course_ it was.) There are tears in her eyes, and Jane goes to placate her again, but only manages a long stream of coughing.

"We'll have to take the stairs," Sherlock says through his gritted teeth. Jane swallows a few times, and tries to talk, when she is cut off by another traitorous wheeze. Her breath halts in her chest, and she bites her lip as she struggles on pulling long draughts of air through her nose for a few seconds. Sherlock steadies her, his hands gripping her upper arms. Finally when she seems a bit calmer, Sherlock turns around, and clasps Jane's arms loosely around his neck while simultaneously hoisting her up on his back, fingers curling around the backs of her knees.

"Hi-ho silver?" she chokes out, and Sherlock rolls his eyes. Trust Jane to make the direness of the situation into a bloody _joke._

"Molly, I'll only be gone a moment. Don't tamper with my readings," Sherlock instructs as he shoulders open the door to the stairwell. Another crest-fallen apology is cut off as the door slams shut, and Sherlock starts up the stairs two at a time.

"Sherlock," Jane says, the end of his name breaking off into a rasp. He feels her lungs rattle and seize against him, and he pushes up the last flight as hard as he can.

"MAKE WAY!" he yells as he bursts out into the hall. He nearly upends a meal cart in his haste as he rounds the corner.

"Sherlock, Jane what —?" Mike Stamford says as Sherlock comes to a screeching halt in front of him, narrowly avoiding knocking the man clean off his feet.

"Anaphylactic shock," Sherlock says. Mike takes another half a second to look them over before he grabs Sherlock and steers him the other way. He starts to protest before Mike cuts in.

"A&E is too far away. I have an Epi-Pen in my desk," he says and takes off down the corridor, Sherlock hot on his heels.

They enter the office, and Sherlock sets Jane in one of the chairs kneeling next to her as she grips the arm rests and struggles to breathe. Her wrecked and rusted gasps are probably the worst thing he's ever heard.

"Got it!" Mike cries and practically lunges across the desk where Sherlock snatches it and yanks off the cap with his teeth.

"Almost, Jane," he says and jabs it into her thigh, holding for ten seconds to make sure all of the dose is administered. Absently he rubs the injection site to ease some of the pain while she continues to fight the vice in her chest.

The only sound in the room is of her laboured breaths as they slowly loosen. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply in through her nose and out through her mouth. Sherlock watches her astutely, and notices how her lips seem a bit swollen and red, but other than that the bright patches on her cheeks are beginning to fade in severity.

"Sorry to put you out like that, Mike," Jane says after she's got her breath back. She leans forward in the chair hunched over a little, and utterly spent.

"Wasn't a problem at all," he says good-naturedly. "I'm glad you ran into me. But you should consider carrying an Epi-Pen with you like I do just in case there is a next time."

"We'll look into it," Sherlock says before Jane has a chance to grumble about being fussed over. She glares at him, and he glares right back entering in a silent conversation of _'This is really not up for discussion,'_ and _'You made me abandon an experiment, so yes it is.'_

Just before Jane voices her opinion on the matter, however, Mike's mobile phone suddenly goes off, the tune of the William Tell Overture slicing through the thick tension.

"Sorry, I have to take this. It's my wife," Mike says and ducks out of his office.

Jane purses her lips repressing a grin, and tries not to look at him. Sherlock clears his throat.

"That was fitting given the circumstances," he says casually, and drums his fingers against her knee, repeating the Overture.

Jane bursts out laughing. "You mean given the fact that you were practically galloping up and down the halls with me on your back like the Lone Ranger?"

"Well, what other circumstance would Rossini be warranted?" he says, a smirk pulling at his own lips.

"You berk," she says. "Come on. The least you can do is pay for my cab back to the flat." She gets up only needing Sherlock's shoulder to steady herself.

"Hi-ho silver," he quips, and she laughs some more.

4.

The fourth time it happened, it was practically habit.

"It's just water," Sherlock says, exasperated. "Come on we have to cross or we'll lose the suspect!"

"It's not just water, Sherlock, it's a river, and I am not about to cross with this ankle," she growls. "You cross if you want to and I'll find another way."

"It's hardly a _river,_ Jane," Sherlock says. (Maybe a small stream…well perhaps a creek. A swift one, granted, but still.) "And I thought you said you were fine?"

"I am. I just twisted it a little." As if to negate this, Jane suddenly slips down the bank a little, hissing as her right foot (her _bad_ foot) becomes tangled in a copse of tree roots. She struggles to maintain her poise even though her grimace of pain is breaking through.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You should know by now that I never take your word for it," he stomps over and crouches down to undo her foot. "In fact, I am pretty sure I hate all instances of the word _fine._ So please refrain from using that word, if it's not too much trouble, unless something is well and truly _fine_ by definition." He flicks her kneecap.

"Does this mean I get to ban you from saying _obviously?"_

"No," he says shortly, and snaps apart a root.

"No?"

"No. I happen to use that word correctly."

"You really think so?" she says wryly gripping his shoulders for balance.

"_Yes._ Now shut up and stop moving!" he orders, nearing the end of his patience. (How she managed to end up with the blasted roots twisted up in her laces was certainly a mystery. An aggravating one.)

"Fine."

"Fine!" he shouts. He stops when the realisation hits him, and glares up at her where she stands with her arms folded over her chest in that smug way she does. She smirks, and Sherlock narrows his eyes even further. _"Fine."_

Before she even gets the chance to register the wicked glint in his eye, Sherlock swoops her up into a fireman's carry, throwing her gracelessly over his shoulder.

"Hey!" she squawks and smacks his back. "Put me down I said I'll find another way!"

"Don't be obtuse, Jane," Sherlock says, and steps out into the knee-high water. "Now if you don't want to end up with soggy clothes and a cold as well as what is clearly a _sprained ankle,_ I suggest you keep still."

Jane huffs quite loudly, but does as she's told. He can feel her crossing her arms against his back.

"Fine," she mutters, and Sherlock is glad she can't see the fond smile creeping across his face.

5.

Sherlock was skimming through some files on Lestrade's work computer, completely engrossed when a highly unwelcome voice interrupted.

"Hey, Freak. What do you think you're doing here?"

Sherlock closes his eyes willing the patience to come. It never did.

"You know, Sally, it simply baffles me how you even made Detective Sergeant in the first place. What does it look like I'm doing?" he snaps.

"Inspector Lestrade told you to go home hours ago," she says. "He told you to take Jane, but that obviously didn't happen." She indicates Jane's sleeping form on the small sofa in Lestrade's office.

(Hours ago? Jane? Oh…right.)

Sherlock gets up and walks over to the sofa. He sees that she commandeered his coat as a blanket at some point, and he tucks it more securely under her chin. She shifts minutely, and Sherlock is shocked to find that she has the symptoms of a fever. (Was Jane sick? Why didn't she say anything? Oh of course she wouldn't. She's terrible at things like this.) Guilt suddenly ripples through him. He should have noticed the signs before he dragged her out into the rain and all over London.

"Jane is perfectly fine. And besides, I'm sure Lestrade is more concerned with getting Leblanc and his gang off the streets," he sniffed.

"You know," Donovan begins, "he's too fond of her to say it, but I don't care either way. From what I see, Lestrade thinks you're no good for her, and I agree. You're a bloody danger to your own self much less hers."

"Jane is a grown woman. A soldier," Sherlock retorts trying to keep his voice down. He sneaks a glance at her, but she's completely dead to the world. "She can make her own decisions."

"Lestrade says she's reckless," Donovan says, a gleam of malice in her eyes. "Says he worries about her."

"Of course he does. They're family. Or as good as," Sherlock says.

"He says she doesn't see that she isn't a soldier any more. She doesn't see what you do to her sometimes," she says, coiling for the kill. "But _you_do."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, trying to keep his temper in check. "What are you on about?"

"You see everything. Don't tell me you haven't noticed," she says gesturing to Jane again.

Sherlock scoffs disdainfully even though he feels like he's suddenly lost his footing. He bends over and lifts Jane into his arms. "Tell Lestrade to keep me posted," he says imperiously and shoves past her on his way to the door.

"Tell me. What'll happen if you get her killed?" she says, her voice quiet, but not lacking in inertia as it hits him like a blow from behind. "Did you ever think about that?"

He pauses for a fraction of a second before stiffly walking out of Lestrade's office.

He carries Jane through NSY headquarters, deep in thought.

(Of course he thought of it. Of course he saw. But he couldn't get rid of her. He tried to talk himself into that scenario once before, and the only conclusion was that he was just too selfish to let her go.)

He tightens his grip on her slightly.

"That woman is an idiot," Jane mumbles against him, her eyes still closed. He didn't know she was awake, and so he stops and looks down at her, startled.

In the stillness of the corridor it's just them, just Jane, and so Sherlock takes a breath.

"What if she's right?" he confesses, shocked that he even voiced it.

Jane's fever bright eyes flutter open. She fixes him with a look. "And you're going to start listening to her _now?"_ she whispers. "Then you're an even bigger idiot than Donovan," she says, a tired smile making her lips curve upward.

(Good point.)

He attempts a smirk, and she hums contentedly, her eyes falling closed again.

"Let's go home," she sighs, and it isn't until much later when he realises that this was the first time she's ever referred to their flat as such.

"All right," he says in a low voice, and continues to make his way down the corridor.

* * *

**Just listen to the finale of the William Tell Overture and tell me that it doesn't remind you of horses. Lol**


	17. BONUS -- Dog Day Afternoon

_**There is a new lodger at 221b... **_

_**Set somewhere between S01e02 and S01e03. Neither here nor there. **_

**AN: Hello everyone! This is another bonus chapter requested from someone who asked: "Can you write one with Jane finding a puppy and bringing it back to Baker Street? Maybe some jealousy in sues when Jane is more attentive with the puppy than she is with Sherlock," and I was like, um YES.**

* * *

**BONUS - Dog Day Afternoon**

It had been a long day at the surgery complete with screaming children and cantankerous old people, and Jane had so had it with everyone that she decided to walk home instead of deal with the idiotic herds of cattle that occupied the Tube. (Christ, Sherlock really was rubbing off on her.) About a block away from Baker Street she had fallen into a right fugue, and was so wrapped up in her brooding she nearly stepped right off the kerb and into oncoming traffic.

Before she could be smeared into an unattractive stain on the street, however, a loud piercing bark cut through her reverie making her jump back onto the pavement instinctively. At the same moment, a cab clips past narrowly missing her, the cabbie giving her the two-fingered salute for good measure.

After her heart settles back where it belongs anatomically, she turns around and sees the dog — and Irish Setter by the looks of it — damp and dingy, sitting next to a small shop.

"Hello? Is it you I have to thank for saving my life, then?" she asks as she kneels down in front of him. He whines and wags his tail, and she takes that as permission to give him a good scratch behind the ears. "Where is your family? You're much too handsome to be a stray." He ducks his head and presses it against her knee. He whimpers, and holds up a paw. "What's wrong, 'fella?" she says and inspects the leg.

The dog yelps under her prodding even though she is trying to be as gentle as possible. There was a small gash that she could see, but she worried the problem was something bigger like a fracture. She searches for a tag attached to the grey collar, but can't find one.

"Well, there's nothing else for it," she says and carefully lifts her little charge into her arms. The least she could do was try to patch him up and feed him. Then hopefully she would be able to find who he belonged to. "You're coming home with me."

…

"Mrs. Hudson!" Jane calls while thumping the front door with her foot. She adjusts the dog in her arms and grimaces when the poor thing lets out a whine. "Shh, I'm sorry! I know we'll get you sorted in just a mo." The dog, as if in understanding, rests his head on her shoulder for a cuddle.

"Jane what's — _oh!"_ Mrs. Hudson says when she opens the door.

"I know you don't really want any pets in the flat, but he's hurt and I —" Jane starts, but is promptly cut off by a wave of Mrs. Hudson's hand.

"Oh don't be silly, bring the poor dear in!" she says and ushers them inside her flat. "You sit on the floor with him and I will go get some supplies."

"Supplies?" Jane asks, and settles on the embroidered rug against the settee. Trust Mrs. Hudson to be stocked to the gills and prepared for anything. "You're in good hands fella," Jane says to the dog, and he rests his head on her knee.

Mrs. Hudson comes back a moment later with a cold pack, a bottle of pills, and a hunk of cheese. She twists off the cap and pulls out a tablet before carefully lowering herself likewise to the floor.

"Hello, darling," she coos, and the dog raises his head. She stuffs the pill into the cheese and holds it out for him to take. He sniffs it tentatively before licking it out of her palm, tail wagging happily. Jane grabs the bottle of pills and eyes it suspiciously.

"This is a veterinarian grade anti-inflammatory," Jane says, a curious smile tugging her lips at her enigmatic landlady.

"Yes, dear. I used to be a vet assistant, didn't you know? Mrs. Turner's Yorkie has hip dysplasia, and I called in a favour from one of my colleagues back in Florida," she explains absently, continuing to pat the dog's head. "Let's have a look-see at that leg," she says, and as gently as she can, lifts up the injured paw.

"I worry it's fractured," Jane says, kneading the fur between the dog's shoulders as he whines plaintively.

Mrs. Hudson frowns, and flexes the paw gently. She hisses in sympathy when the dog whimpers. "I know, love." Then to Jane, "Not fractured, just a bit of a sprain. It'll have to be iced for a couple of days, and then after, warm compresses. Between the two of us we should be able to manage to get the poor thing settled up."

"Right," Jane says, impressed at the authority and knowledge Mrs. Hudson seems to posses. She was like a walking search engine, equipped with animal first aid as well as a number of home remedies and a killer recipe for Bubble and Squeak.

"He can stay down here until Wednesday, but I will have to ask you to take care of him once he's able to move around a bit more. I've got a hip, well you know."

"That sounds fair," Jane says.

"Where did you find him anyway?" Mrs. Hudson asks as she wraps the cold pack around the dog's leg, and secures it with an Ace bandage.

"On my way home from work. He stopped me from being hit by a cab," she admits ruefully.

"Well aren't you a little hero?" Mrs. Hudson says to the dog, and scratches under his chin. He closes his eyes, mouth opening so his tongue could loll out contentedly.

"You should name him," Jane says suddenly. It's not right that he doesn't have a name to which he could be commended by.

Mrs. Hudson thinks for a moment. "I've always been rather fond of the name Benedict," she muses, and ruffles his copper ears.

Jane suppresses a smirk. It's kind of a mouthful for a dog, but as she looks even closer, it somehow fits. "It's a noble name; a name for a hero. I'll pick up some dog food tomorrow for him."

-oOo-

Sherlock prided himself on being the most observant man in London.

So how he failed to notice a large, hairy, _ginger_ dog sitting on the sofa (_his_ sofa!) for a full minute upon entering the flat was a grievous folly.

He stops dead in the hall on the way to his room when it finally registers. He slowly walks back out into the sitting room, and stares at the creature.

The dog (_sotar rua_ lit. 'Red Setter' resembling an earlier, setting spaniel according to _De Cannibus Britannicus_) was regarding him with an equally cool look and with every inclination that it belonged exactly where it was.

Which it most certainly did not.

"Jane!" he shouts up the stairs, still keeping his eye on the dog. It lifts its head. "Jane!" he bellows again, this time turning his back.

The dog didn't like that one bit apparently, because it was up in a flash and barking at Sherlock. He (for Sherlock could now tell it was a he) was a lot bigger than Sherlock had originally thought, and so if he let out a…_noise_…of alarm it was because he hadn't quantified the ratio of a no doubt five-stone mass of hunting dog to his unprepared eleven-stone self. His back hits the wall as the snarling beast steps closer, canines glistening.

"Ben! Ben that's enough!" Jane shouts flying down the stairs. The dog, _Ben_ (honestly?), stops barking immediately at her scolding tone. She puts her hands on her hips and glares down at him. "That's _very_ rude of you."

He lowers his russet ears, and in a blatant show of manipulation, rolls onto his back.

"Ben?" Sherlock says incredulously as Jane melts like butter and kneels down to scratch his belly.

"There's my good Benny boy," she says, and Ben's tail thumps the hardwood enthusiastically.

"_Benny boy?"_ he said. "That's beyond saccharine even for you, Jane."

Jane glares at him pointedly. "I don't know why you screamed like a girl. I told you about Benedict three days ago. Mrs. Hudson just dropped him off."

"I absolutely _did not_ scream," Sherlock says. Jane gives him another look, and with as much dignity as he can muster, he peels himself away from the wall. "Benedict? What a ridiculous name."

"Says the man named Sherlock William Atherton Albright Holmes."

"Not the point," he seethes. "The point is I think I would have remembered a conversation in which we were getting a new lodger. Seems pretty important."

"Yes I agree. Important information. Unless you deleted it, which you are known to do on occasion." Sherlock…ironically didn't have a reply to that. Jane gets to her feet. "Are you hungry?"

"Actually I could do with —"

"Not you. I was talking to Ben," Jane says with a huff of laughter. "If you want something, fix it yourself, you lazy git." And with that she beckons Ben into the kitchen, chattering to him while she pours some dry food into a ceramic bowl.

Sherlock just stares at them, abashed. As if sensing this, Ben lifts his head for a moment, and Sherlock swears the hairy menace actually _smirks _at him.

The dog had to go.

-oOo-

Jane sits curled up on the sofa with Ben's head in her lap as she reads her book.

Or tries to read, that is. She keeps getting interrupted every other paragraph it seems like, by Sherlock and his irksome questions and bloody map.

"So you say you found him over on Park —" he traces the road with his finger.

"Yes I've said," Jane says putting her book down for the tenth time. Ben looks up at her and huffs indignantly. She can't help but agree. "I thought you didn't care about Ben?"

"I don't," Sherlock says with a glance. Ben grunts petulantly in his direction. _Well that makes two_, Jane thinks as she tries not to smile.

Instead she says, "Then why are you devoting so much time to finding his owners?"

"Because. The sooner I know where he came from, the sooner I can throw him back," he grumbles. "That used to be my sofa, by the way."

"There's room for you too," Jane says.

"And risk getting hair all over my clothes? No thank you," he scoffs. "I'm already paying a fortune in lint tape rollers. The industry will have me alone to thank for their impressive sales this quarter."

"You're always so dramatic," she says rolling her eyes. Sherlock doesn't deign to respond to this.

"You said he was hurt when you found him…six days ago?"

"Yes. Sprained his paw. But he's all better, and I assume he appreciates your concern, don't you, Benny?" she says and gives him a good hearty scratch between his ears.

His fur was softer now that Jane had given him a bath the other day, much to Sherlock's dismay. She accidentally left his door open, so the second Ben left the bathroom, he bolted into Sherlock's room and began rubbing his damp self all over the pillows and eiderown trying to dry off.

Jane thought it was hilarious when Sherlock tried to chase Ben out of the room, and the dog only took it as more of a sign to continue to roll and play all over Sherlock's bed. Jane was absolutely useless in helping, too subdued with side-splitting laughter. She apologised after, of course, and offered to have the duvet dry-cleaned. The next day she came downstairs to a sitting room full of FOUND DOG flyers with Ben's face plastered to the front, and shockingly, Sherlock's phone number on of each and every one. Although, what was perhaps even more shocking was the fact that he put the flyers up himself.

After two solid days of not one single enquiry, Sherlock had then treated Ben as if he were a case, and began trying to retrace the dog's path single-handedly. There was a spread sheet of possible routes taken by a dog with a sprained paw, a timetable, and various maps of London with different lines and circles drawn onto them. All the while Jane just sat back and watched him, thoroughly amused. At least he wasn't bored.

"I think he managed to walk a lot farther than I had initially thought," Sherlock finally says and grabs another stack of newly minted flyers. "I'm going to increase my radius from five miles, to ten."

"Oh well that's good," Jane says, and watches as Sherlock spins around, coat unbuttoned and flapping around like a cape. He dons his navy scarf, and sets off down the hall to his room. After a moment she hears a bumping and banging, and possibly a muttered curse here and there, and Jane was just about to ask him what the bloody hell he was up to, when a frustrated growl sounds from in the kitchen. Jane leans forward on the sofa and catches a glimpse of Sherlock crawling inelegantly under the table. "What are you doing?" she says and makes her way to lean against the door frame, Ben at her heels.

"That mangy _rapscallion_ of a flea warehouse keeps. stealing. my. left. SHOE!" he snarls, snatching said shoe and banging his head on the table as he tries to extract himself.

"Just the left one?" Jane says with a guffaw.

"Always the bloody left one!" he says rubbing his head. He points a finger at Ben. "I _will_ make a coat out of you."

In typical Ben fashion, he rolls over onto his back playfully. Oh he was a cheeky bugger, Jane would give him that. "Shame on you," she ties to admonish through her chuckling. She crouches down anyway and gives him a belly rub.

"Traitor," Sherlock says to her, and manages to put on his remaining shoe while glaring at her all the while. Then, with a flourish of curls and coat, he was out the door.

-oOo-

Sherlock sits across from Jane in his armchair observing her for a while before he says:

"Mycroft."

"You better be careful, I might make a swear jar," Jane says wryly without looking up at him from her idle paper-reading. Sherlock watches as her hand plays with Ben's ears. The dog practically _oozes_ smugness, and it positively grates on him.

He grits his teeth. "No I meant that Mycroft would be able to get rid of him."

Jane looks up at this startled. "Jesus, Sherlock. He's just a dog not a criminal." (That, of course, was pending be he doesn't say.)

"Not like…_that,"_ Sherlock says rolling his eyes. He suppresses the urge to groan at the offended expressions from both Jane and Ben. (A fortnight ago he wouldn't have thought it possible for a dog to look so insulted, but Ben managed it completely.) "What I _meant_ was that Mycroft could give him a home, given the fact that it seems that his owners either left the country or simply don't want him anymore, seeing as how I've all but papered London at this point."

"Oh," Jane says settling back into a more relaxed state. "Why would he ever trouble himself with such a thing?"

"He has a fondness for animals," Sherlock replies.

"I'm sorry, what?" Jane blurts, a grin stretching across her face. "Did you say your brother has a _fondness_ for something other than Mrs. Hudson's Bakewell Tart?"

At this Sherlock actually snorts. "Alas, he does. I remember him practically begging Mummy for a pet rabbit one Christmas."

"A rabbit. Really?" Jane says thoughtfully. "What did he name it?"

"Oh something awful. Gladstone, I think. I'm surprised I haven't deleted it. It actually might be worse a worse name than Benedict," he says. The dog actually growl-whines his disapproval at this, and Sherlock narrows a glare at him.

Jane chuckles and picks up the paper again. Sherlock turns his mind to other things, and is about to go observe the pollen he collected off the cuffs of Jane's trousers when she suddenly lowers the paper.

"Hang on. Are you actually suggesting what I think you are?" she says.

"I wouldn't know. Despite what everyone seems to fear, I cannot actually read minds," he drawls.

"You want to give your brother a dog," she states.

"Yes. It would be mutually beneficial for all parties. Benedict would be well looked after, and it wouldn't put Mycroft out seeing as how he has no other obligation aside from running the Free World."

"You want to give your brother a dog because he's..._lonely?"_ Jane says even more incredulous.

"That's not what I —" he tries to say, but Jane is apparently on to something and she steam rolls over him.

"Yes it is. I know a little bit about how that great brain of yours works. You identify with Ben in the sense that you need looking after — don't give me that look, I know you've been jealous since he got here — and for the longest time it was Mycroft, your _big brother_," (Sherlock tries to tamp down his disgust at this particular phrasing) "whom would always take care of you. So logically, Mr. Science Man being all full of logic-y things, you come to a solution."

"Yes as I've said it's mutually beneficial. It's hardly a solution driven out of _sentiment_, Jane," he counters.

"Then why not give him to a shelter?" she challenges.

"Because…"

"Because you didn't even think of it, am I right?" she says, her eyes sharp and knowing.

"Yes I did," he lies. (The truth is he didn't consider that option at all.) "I just knew how you would feel about the matter. You seem quite attached, so I didn't want to upset you."

"Sure. Blame it on me all you want," Jane says and gets up to make tea. "But I know the truth."

"And what would that be?" Sherlock says making eye-contact with Ben. The dog cocks its head to the side as it stares back.

"Sherlock Holmes has a heart," she says triumphantly.

"Oh please," he scoffs and pulls out his mobile. He opens a new text message field, and wonders if this is how everybody else feels when he deduces them. (Not like he would ever admit this out loud, of course.) He snaps his phone shut and stands up, intending to continue with his pollen experiment.

Ben stands up too, and walks over to sit at his feet, his tail lightly wagging. He holds up a paw as if in acknowledgment, and it's Sherlock's turn to cock his head.

"I'm assuming you know the lengths I went through, including tarnishing my dignity, so you wouldn't end up back on the streets?" he asks the setter. Ben grunts in affirmation, and lowers his paw. "I'm glad we've come to an understanding," Sherlock says.

Making sure Jane's back is turned, Sherlock bends down and scratches him behind one floppy ear.

* * *

**Ginger dog named Benedict? I think yes. Haha so he wasn't a puppy, but I hope you liked it anyways, and just because of this chapter I am incorporating Mycroft and Ben into the actual story line.**


	18. Sunday

_**Sunday dinner with Greg...**_

**AN: Hey guys. This chapter is a pretty quiet chapter. Given where I'm at in 'Blindness and Bad Luck,' I am slowly trying to transition them out of the simply 'friends' stage, so this focusses on their shifting dynamic more than the domestic fluffiness that you are all probably used to. I hope you like it, as I was a little unsure about it at first.**

**In conjunction with the chapter Precipice in part three of this series.**

* * *

**Sunday**

"_What_ are you wearing?" Sherlock says from behind her making her jump and slosh some water over her hand as she was filling the kettle.

"What?" she says looking down at herself in confusion before flipping on the hob. She was going to have to remind (badger, bully, nag, etc.) him that he still needed to replace their electric one after he used it to boil some no doubt poisonous form of mushroom. The dented metal one Mrs. Hudson loaned them takes longer to boil, and she debates whether or not tea is worth it at the moment. She proceeds anyway, because tea is always worth it in the end.

"_This,"_ Sherlock says plucking at her sleeve for emphasis.

"It's a blouse," she says facing him with her chin raised. He has the audacity to look insulted.

"Yes, but what's it doing on _you?"_ he says bluntly. She glares at him and folds her arms over her chest before looking down at herself again in a spectacular attack of insecurity. Her ensemble consisted of a white short-sleeved cottony blouse with tasteful ruffles around the sweetheart neck line and a pair of casual dress slacks. It wasn't too flashy, but comfortable and practical to boot, and she figured at the time it suited her…or so she thought. Sherlock seems to pick up on her uncertainty, and he rolls his eyes. "Oh don't be like that, you know what I meant."

"I know I don't really look it, but I have been known to wear more feminine clothing on occasion," Jane grumbles, and turns away from him, busying herself with the mugs. By all means he doesn't deserve tea after being so rude, but she sets about making him a cup anyway. She dabs her little finger with her tongue and dips it into the small pot of caster sugar before licking it off, and spoons some into Sherlock's mug.

He watches her do this, a curious tilt to his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement even though his mouth remains stoical.

"It's not just that you've deviated from your normally pragmatic attire for something more fashionable, it's the fact that you've gone out of your way to purchase these items new specifically to be worn on this day. So today is special for some reason. Not a date, no. I'd know if that Sherman character were coming by —"

"His name's Stephen —"

"— so it has to be something else. It's obligatory, which is why you're nervous, but it's something you care about and want to impress more than usual." He leans in and scrutinises her face. "And are you wearing _mascara?"_ he adds incredulously.

Jane huffs and pushes him out of her personal space.

"Only a little bit," she says, her cheeks heating. "And you wouldn't have to bother yourself with deducing everything if you hadn't deleted the fact that I told you, _yesterday,_ I was going over to Greg's for dinner." She shoves a mug of tea in his hands.

"Oh. Dull," Sherlock says and leans back against the counter blowing the steam from the brim of his cup. She rolls her eyes and sips her own.

"So does this mean you won't be coming with?" she asks.

"What?" he says, frowning.

"Stop bloody deleting our conversations, you great pillock. I invited you and you said you'd think about it." She looks at him expectantly as he continues to frown off into the distance, the skin bunching at the top of his nose like it does when he's confused. "Well?"

"I'm thinking," comes the reply. Jane shakes her head in exasperation. Before she turns towards the sink to empty the remaining tea in her mug, he speaks up again. "Why do you want me to come with you?"

It sounded like a simple question, but it gave her pause. With Sherlock Holmes, nothing was ever simple. She regards him for a moment. "You said it yourself. I'm a bit nervous. The last time I attempted a normal family gathering, it ended horribly. I could use the company, and naturally who better than my best friend?" she smiles ruefully.

Instead of clearing things up, her explanation seemed to have the opposite effect as Sherlock's frown of confusion turned into a full blown scowl. He looks away from her and over her shoulder, his eyes flicking back and forth rapidly as if searching for an answer written on the wall behind her. He opens his mouth once, twice, three times to say something, before giving up. He sidesteps her without a word and makes his way to his bedroom.

_So that would be a 'no', then._

Jane stands in the kitchen, oddly bereft. She wasn't expecting Sherlock to want to go in the first place, but for some reason their exchange in the kitchen made his rejection sting a little more than it should.

Before she can ponder the strange twisty feeling in her gut any longer, however, Sherlock suddenly glides back in with his coat and his scarf.

"Shall we?" he says, his voice rumbling. She can't help but grin in relief as she makes her way to get her own jacket.

"I will warn you, Greg's specialty is beer-can chicken. If you get him started on the topic, he won't shut up about the mechanics of his technique," she says as they head down the stairs.

_"Scintillating,"_ Sherlock drawls, and hails a cab for them.

-oOo-

It was odd seeing Lestrade out of the confines of New Scotland Yard. (A bit unnerving, if Sherlock was being honest.) It was one thing to deduce that the Detective Inspector was previously married, has two children, and a proclivity for football and outdoor grilling, but to actually observe this carbon copy of domesticity was something else. He eyes Lestrade's 'Grill-Meister' apron with distaste, and watches as his children (one girl – Amanda, age seven; one boy – Zachary, age five) chase each other around the small yard. He looks down at his beer with a scowl.

"Isn't it a bit early for a cook out?" Sherlock says disdainfully as the late March air ruffles his curls.

Lestrade sips his own beer thoughtfully. "Maybe…" he concedes with a crooked grin. "But I've been wanting to test this baby out ever since Kathleen got it for me for Christmas." He pats the grill fondly.

Ah yes. _Kathleen._ The new girlfriend Lestrade acquired. He narrows his gaze as he watches said girlfriend prepare the rest of dinner through the wide kitchen window, Jane at her side peeling potatoes.

Sherlock wonders how Lestrade cannot know that Kathleen is cheating on him with the P.E. teacher at the school she works at. It's blatantly obvious. The grill is a testament to her infidelity. It's expensive, flashy. A gift that should be given as a testament to their commitment to one another. Seeing as how they've only been together for a little over nine months, it speaks on behalf of another testament: guilt. (Or manipulation. Or both.) The instant they walked through the door, Sherlock had deduced it. He was half way to saying as much before he remembered Jane was standing right next to him. So he clamped his mouth shut for once, and endured the inane pleasantries for her sake.

He observes her through the window some more. Her hair is down giving her a soft look. Or perhaps it is because she is so at ease that makes her look that way? – making her usually brazen eyes flicker like candle light. She laughs at something Kathleen says, and even though Sherlock can't hear it, he can picture its cadence perfectly, the way it hushes out of her mouth at the very beginning before it dissolves into a bubbly trill reminiscent of wind chimes.

Jane's laugh is a gift, he realises.

It is for this reason that he keeps his deductions at bay. He's well to admit that he's usually out of his depth with such things, but he's learning. And he'll be damned if he knowingly lets himself be the reason to take her laughter away.

-oOo-

The cab ride back to the flat is a quiet one, and Jane's gaze slides to her pensive flatmate.

She had a wonderful time at her uncle's house, and she was immensely grateful that Sherlock came along, although she did worry at the beginning he would be his usual caustic and insufferable self. Much to her shock, however, he was quiet even though she could see that great brain of his working rapid-fire, and dare she say it, he was even rather _polite._ It had done much to set her mind at ease, but now that they were headed home, she began to worry. It was unusual.

"Hey," she says placing her hand on his knee to get his attention. "All right?"

He regards her with a sudden furious intensity that takes her breath away.

"You're uncle's girlfriend is having an affair with a colleague," Sherlock blurts as if he had been holding back all night. Which in all fairness, he probably was.

_"What?"_ she breathes, incredulous.

"She's also been stealing petty cash from the shop her father owns, and most likely uses most of it to spend on diet pills and valium instead of paying Lestrade what is due to him monthly for bills and the rent on the house they share. He's blind to the matter, and what's more is he's thinking of proposing to her next month if the little velvet box sitting in his desk at work is anything to go by." She inhales sharply, and Sherlock face twists in a grimace of disdain before he turns to look back out the window.

Anger roils up within her once the shock has worn off. "Feel better? Now that it's off your chest?" she asks.

"No I do not feel better!" he snaps turning his fierce glare on her once more. His pupils are constricted, and he worries his scarf between his fingers as if he's trying to tear it apart. "The deductions…_knowing_ all of that just swirling around in my head for hours and hours while you all played 'happy families' completely blind to everything that's so obviously in front of you! And you! You just kept going on about how _happy_you were for him. And then I'm left with —"

"It's always about you isn't it?" Jane says her hot fury washing over her and breaking into a cold bitterness. "That's what it comes down to? Sorry my life is so boring, but god forbid you keep your deductions to your self for more than twenty minutes."

"I can picture it, Jane! Don't you see?" Sherlock says nearly shouting at this point. "I can picture your face when it happens, you with your insufferable bleeding heart, and the way your eyes look when another thing in your life has disillusioned you; when disappointment leaves another notch in your wall. And there's nothing anyone can do to stop it from happening because people are idiots, and they all run about blind knocking into each other causing damage. Do you understand, Jane? Do you?"

Jane clenches her jaw and finally looks directly at him. The conversation had taken a turn, and she's not entirely sure what they are talking about anymore. She presses her fingers into her forehead. "Speak plainly for once, Sherlock. What are you getting at?"

"I couldn't tell you!" he says lowering his voice to a deadly growl.

"You just did!" she points out, and he stares straight ahead.

"I couldn't tell you, and then I couldn't _not_ tell you at the same time," Sherlock says, and gritting his teeth, closes his eyes briefly. He looks at her trying to get her to understand, the words lost on him.

"Why couldn't you?" she asks, bereft. He mumbles something under his breath looking back out his window. "What was that?"

"You said we were best friends," Sherlock says a little louder, sparing her a glance in the reflection of the glass.

And suddenly, Jane gets it.

"Oh," she says.

"Mm."

She sits there, the realisation washing over her. Without saying anything, she reaches over and takes his hand in hers.

_Thank you,_ she squeezes. It takes a moment, but Sherlock eventually squeezes back, and they watch London pass them by in silence.


	19. Date

_**Jane knows what's in there. Of course she does.**_

**AN: Sorry it's been a bit on this one. I've been trying my hardest to finish up 'Blindness'. This particular chapter I held off on because if you are reading this companion piece in order based on the corresponding chapters in the main arc, it alludes to the next chapter in 'Blindness' well. Foreshadowing and all that jazz. I hope you like it. It's admittedly not as fluffy, but I didn't want to be too obvious in the main arc. Anyways!**

**Set directly after Sherlock leaves the flat in the chapter Pretence.**

* * *

**Date**

Jane is left standing in the sitting room with three mugs of tea in her hands as Sherlock's coat tails whip around the landing, and he clatters the rest of the way down the stairs. The street door slams, and she frowns, feeling at a loss. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to hare off on his own, but there was something in his pinched expression just before he left. She wanted to write it off as exhaustion and irritation, but there was something else that niggled at her.

"Well," Stephen says coming over to fetch one of the mugs. "Isn't he a pleasant chap?"

"Rude as ever. I did warn you," Jane says lightly and pours out Sherlock's tea with a sigh. She comes back and takes a seat on the sofa, beckoning Stephen to sit with her. "Thanks for walking me home. You didn't have to."

"Nonsense. I wanted to," he says. He looks at her from over his glasses as he takes a sip. "How did you end up flatsharing with him, anyway? You're both like oil and water."

Jane chuckles as she thinks back to the first time she met Sherlock. It probably wouldn't be on to mention that she killed a man for him in the first forty-eight hours of having known him. Definitely bit-not-good.

"It was a mutual acquaintance of ours," she settles on. "Mike Stamford works at St. Bart's as a teacher, and he apparently had a conversation with Sherlock that day and Sherlock remarked that he was hard person to find a flatmate for. That afternoon I ran into Mike at the park, and I mentioned I needed new lodgings as well. He took me to meet him, and well, the rest is history." She takes a sip of her own tea thinking back to that day, and how a million things could have gone differently and if they had she would have never met Sherlock. She smiles to herself.

"What are you thinking about?" Stephen asks softly.

"Destiny," she says without really thinking.

"Ah. There seems to be a lot of that between us," Stephen says mistaking her meaning. She blinks for a second before she realises what she said.

"Yes. I suppose there is," Jane says a blush colouring her cheeks.

"Listen," Stephen says setting his mug on the coffee table. "I was wondering…if you don't have plans tonight, would you like to accompany me to a night out?"

Jane tilts her head, and gives a baffled smile. He sits on the edge of the sofa all hopeful boyishness, his hands clasped in his lap. His dark fringe hangs down, framing the top of his glasses making him look years younger, and absolutely charming. She didn't realise she had been staring for quite so long until Stephen starts to ramble, suddenly unsure.

"Of course if you're not feeling up to it I completely understand and I —"

"Stephen, I'd love to," she says putting him at ease. Her grin only grows wider.

"Oh. Really?" he asks as if he can't believe it.

"Yes," she says, and can't help but brush some of the hair out of his eyes.

"Well. In that case…how about I pick you up around seven-thirty tonight?" he says.

"Sounds like a plan," she says and stands to show him the door. He grins, all charming and handsome-like, and skips down the stairs. Jane shakes her head, smiling to herself. She turns around and enters the flat again, her hands on her hips.

She was alone. Which, admittedly, wasn't a new thing, but somehow she felt the emptiness more so than usual. She pulls her mobile out from her pocket and fires off a quick text.

_Sent – 4:42 PM_  
_I didn't mean to chase you out of the flat. stephen's gone, so you can come back now._

Sherlock doesn't answer, and Jane bites her lip.

_Sent – 4:48 PM_  
_we can work on the books some more if you want? whatever the case, I'm here._

She hits send and tucks her phone away knowing that she probably won't get a reply. Jane knows she's probably worrying for nothing, but she can't shake the way he looked at her just before he left. It was a worn look; a distressed and irritated look. One that was most common when he was pushing himself much too hard. He had knocked himself off-kilter somehow, and she could tell he was wobbling.

Jane looks around the living room for a moment before her eyes come to rest on Sherlock's leather violin case.

She knows what's in there. Of course she does. She's been around enough addicts to know all the tricks, and it didn't take her long to deduce where Sherlock kept his emergency stash. However, he used it more as a security blanket than anything, she noticed. He liked having it around as if to prove that it was still his choice to not take the cocaine as opposed to it having the decision thrust upon him like it was in the past. It was a precarious situation he was subjecting himself to, much like playing with fire, but as time went on she saw that this system seemed to work for Sherlock. So she didn't say anything or let on to the fact that she knew. Sherlock needed some modicum of control of the situation after all. That's what it really boiled down to.

However, once an addict, always an addict. She had read it enough times in the pamphlets on alcoholism she took home whenever her sister entered into another rehab. There were signs to look out for that spelled danger, and she was surprising adept at spotting them. Sherlock was stretched too thin by this case, she could tell, and after today she could see the iron will of his reserve eroding under the pressure. It was as close as she's ever seen him reach the edge, and because of this she crosses to the desk where the case is sat upon without a second thought.

Her finger tips brush the gold latches, but at the last moment she hesitates.

If she does this, isn't she no better than Mycroft? She doesn't know much about their sordid relationship, but she knows there is a lot of resentment between them caused by Sherlock's past drug use. As much is true when it comes to her and Harry, honestly. She just did the opposite of Mycroft and ran away and joined the Army instead. It did little to improve her relationship with her sister either way.

So that was the question. Which was better? Action or inaction? Force or ignorance?

She didn't know.

The only thing she did know was that it was clear the Work wouldn't always be enough for him. She only hoped he found something that would before he fell to ruin at his own hands, because she didn't know if she could watch one of the most brilliant people she's ever known tear himself apart.

She backs away from the case and sinks into her armchair.


	20. Yellow Spray Paint

**_Jane figures it's about time she earned that bloody ASBO_****.**

**AN: Hello all! This marks the first round of Afters for the newest installment 'Pursuit of a Greater Thrill' and I hope you like it. It's a bit long because I wanted to tie off some loose ends from 'Blindness' and figured this would do nicely. Thank you all so much for reading, and I am excited to be writing this. I am a bit behind on NaNoWriMo due to reasons, but I am trying to throw these up here as fast as I can! Your comments definitely keep me chuggin along, that's for sure. Anyways! Expect more soon! xxHoney**

* * *

**Yellow Spray Paint**

Jane sits across their desk-cum-breakfast table munching on some bacon as she watches her pensive flatmate.

Sherlock flips angrily through the pages of the paper, the front page featuring the picture of an antique looking hairpin with the headline: WHO WANTS TO BE A MILLION-HAIR? Sighing heavily, he folds it into thirds and slaps it down on the desk next to his untouched plate of soldiers and eggs.

"You mind, don't you?" she says after a while.

"Hm?" he says, snapping out of his reverie.

"That she got away. It isn't enough that we got Shan's two henchmen, it bothers you that she escaped."

"Oh…it's of no consequence," he replies wearily, stabbing a soldier and cramming it perfunctorily into his mouth. "It must be a vast network. We barely scratched the surface."

"Yeah but you cracked the code!" Jane says, and Sherlock smiles his proud half-smile for a moment before it falls off his face just a quickly.

"No I cracked _this_ code. All the smugglers have to do is pick up another book. Hopefully, I've at least managed to drive them out of London. They still have all of Europe at their fingers for all we know." He spears some scrambled egg with his fork viciously, not really intent on anything more than mutilating the rest of his breakfast at this point.

Jane sighs, and pushes her own plate aside. She contemplates the man in front of her for a moment. He is wearing that ruddy dressing gown over his dress shirt, and one side has slipped off his shoulder. She smiles slightly, a warm fondness welling up within her, and she leans over the table and fixes it, her fingers brushing against the side of his neck before she smoothes the placket down over his chest a bit. Her hand lingers there over his heart for a moment, lost in that steady beat as she remembers how he felt pressed against her the other night.

The other night…

When Sherlock kissed her. Nothing but a memory now, tucked into a small box and kept close to her heart, there for her to look but never to touch again.

She begins to pull away, when Sherlock's hand suddenly catches hers and she gasps, eyes snapping to his face. His own eyes are closed and he presses her hand to him even harder, fingers curling under hers, cool against her warm skin. He looks at her finally, a fierceness in his gaze, a devastated longing that reflects her own, before breaking the connection and slowly placing her hand on the table between them. He doesn't let go, and instead stares at their hands for the longest time until Jane turns her wrist so she can link them together properly.

She stands tugging him likewise to his feet.

"Come on. I have to go do something, and I'll not have you sulking about the flat all day. Get your coat."

-oOo-

Sherlock hates hospitals. The bright fluorescent lights, the strong smell of antiseptic, the _sickness_ and _injury_ all around him. Some areas were worse, of course. A&E was particularly bad, the tension and stress and chaos coalescing in one place, not to mention the bitterness/agitation/worry/fear/pain on everyone's faces. (And that was just in the waiting room.)

He wouldn't go to any floor that wasn't the morgue that the air of death lingered as well. At St. Bart's, the fifth floor was designated for those of the terminally ill, and Sherlock avoided it at all costs if he could. He couldn't take the hopelessness.

Luckily, where they were going was the Recovery Centre, which by far was the best wing in the hospital according to Sherlock. It was lighter, hardly any vestiges of dread or sorrow permeated the corridors, which made it that much easier to breathe.

He follows Jane up to the desk, and finds that the anxiety he usually feels at being in hospital is actually at a tolerable level, so he keeps his deductions about the nurse (actually 45 even though repeated attempts at looking like she's only in her twenties through botox injections and liposuction are present) to himself.

"Soo Lin Yao, please?" Jane asks setting the ceramic mug of blue and yellow paper flowers on the counter.

It was her idea that they get her flowers of some sort, as was customary of visiting people in hospitals, and Sherlock absently said she use the origami lotuses they had fashioned together on the mantle. He didn't know why he suggested such a thing until Jane beamed at him and called him _brilliant,_ and Sherlock was torn between that warm glow of pride he usually felt under her praise, and berating his subconscious for sabotaging the distance he was meant to be implementing between them.

"Room three-eleven," Botox Nurse says, and vaguely gestures down the corridor.

"_Botox Nurse?"_ Jane hisses, barely suppressing a laugh as they make their way to Soo Lin's room.

"Did I say that out loud?"

"Yeah. I'm surprised you waited until she was out of earshot, though. You're being quite docile today," she says.

"I don't like hospitals," Sherlock says as by means of an answer. Jane nods, but doesn't say anything more as she shoulders open the door.

Soo Lin was propped up against the pillows looking pale, but alive and in remarkably good spirits for someone who was recently in a brief coma.

"Mr. Holmes! Doctor Watson!" she says beaming at them, and Sherlock is startled by a bloom of proud affection when Jane immediately envelops Soo Lin in an earnest, but gentle hug. (This woman is alive because of Jane. His Jane.)

"I think you can call me Jane at this point," she says pulling away and setting the mug of paper flowers on the side table along with cards and other 'get well' paraphernalia. "We brought you, well, flowers I suppose."

"They're beautiful. Thank you," Soo Lin says and looks at Sherlock with tears in her eyes. Sherlock suddenly doesn't know what to do with himself, and settles for clearing his throat and nodding sharply.

"It is us who should be thanking you," he says stiffly. "Without the information you gave us the Black Lotus would still be terrorising London. I assume they'll be offering you a key to the city soon," he says, trying for levity, but he feels oddly wrong-footed. He looks at Jane for affirmation, and feels slightly less-so when she smiles softly at him.

Soo Lin tips her head back against the pillows and closes her eyes, a few tears escaping through her lashes. "It's all over now?"

"Yes," he says.

"And Zhi Zhu —?"

"Gone," he says. She squeezes her eyes shut even tighter, and Jane grasps her hand in a comforting gesture, one that Sherlock knows well. (Doctor. Healer. He can almost feel his own fingers tingle with her warmth and compassion she freely bestows. It is a wonder, one he will never fully puzzle out.)

"You never have to worry about him again," Jane says. "You're safe."

Soo Lin opens her eyes, exhaling shakily through her mouth. "I cannot express my gratitude to you both. You saved my life and gave me back my freedom."

Jane blinks hard, her throat working against a lump in her throat. "Just, er, just do us a favour and be kind to yourself. You don't have to hide anymore, so make the most of it."

At that moment, the door practically bangs open with the entrance of a man with his arms full of two different bouquets of flowers and a large stuffed bear.

"Sorry! I couldn't get the door open!"

"Andy?" Soo Lin says.

"Speaking of which," Jane mumbles under her breath and gets to her feet. "Let me help you with those."

"Ta," he says and hands Jane the flowers. "I didn't know if you liked a more classic arrangement or more of the wildflower type so I got you both. I hope that's okay?"

"No it's fine, Andy," Soo Lin says with wide brown eyes.

"Good. Good," he says and shifts a little on his feet, still clutching the bear in his hands. They look at each other silently, an entire conversation seemingly unfolding between them. "How are you feeling?" he says softly.

"I'm okay," Soo Lin replies. Another beat of silence.

"Well," Jane says making her way over to stand by Sherlock. "We are glad you are all right, and we really need to be going, give you two a chance to…catch up. Right Sherlock?"

"Hmm? Yes. Good," Sherlock says tearing his gaze away from Andy's face. The boy was obviously in love with Soo Lin if the stuffed bear with the cartoon heart attached to its front was anything to go by. But it wasn't this deduction that had caught Sherlock completely off-guard, no. It was the salient fact that for once, he _understood._

Dealing with the loved ones of victims was usually tedious because it meant parsing his way to the facts through layers of fear and concern and confusion Sherlock honestly didn't see the point of. His motto had always been that caring wasn't an advantage, and he firmly believed people would see that if they were able to divorce themselves from feelings like he did.

But now, looking into Andy's face he saw all of those things (longing, fear, anger, and overwhelming blessed bloodythankgod _relief_) and the only thought running through is mind was _'My God. I know what that feels like.'_

(This must be what empathy is, and he isn't sure how he feels about that.)

He was grateful, to say the least, when Jane made their excuses and tandem 'well wishing' for the both of them, and followed her out of the hospital.

"Do you mind hailing us a cab? I'm rubbish at it," Jane says.

"Actually…do you mind if we walk a bit?" he says. Sherlock wanted the fresh air at the moment, and the thought of cramming themselves into a taxi was rather unappealing.

"Sure," she says, and they set off at an easy pace side-by-side.

Sherlock took them through some of the lesser known side streets in order to prolong their walk. His mind felt addled, so unlike how he usually felt after a case, and it left him feeling restless yet contemplative. Every time he thought of General Shan or the pictures he found of them that night at the circus, his gut twisted unpleasantly. The interest the Black Lotus had taken in them was incongruous to their smuggling operation, and he couldn't help but feel like there were other forces in play.

A tantalising thought kept circling the edges of his mind, and he couldn't help but think this had something to do with the elusive Moriarty.

However, if his consulting criminal theory was correct, Moriarty's reach was far greater than petty cab drivers with a vengeance. No, the Tong was an ancient crime syndicate, and if Moriarty was the man in the centre of the web, then Sherlock greatly underestimated the magnitude of his 'fan.'

It was terrifying and scintillating all at once.

"Stop that," Jane says.

"What?"

"Brooding."

"I don't brood," he scoffs.

"Yeah you do. You're a master at the epic sulk. You could win gold if it were an Olympic Sport."

"I'm not sulking, I'm thinking," he replies with a scowl.

"About what?"

"Moriarty," he says, and Jane stops in her tracks. He turns to face her and catches a glimpse of her worry as it flickers across her face.

"No. That won't do. Not today," she says definitively, and before Sherlock has a chance to question her, she marches forward and ducks into a small shop on the street corner. A moment later she appears again with something in a plastic carrier bag, and with a tick of her fingers she motions (no, _orders_) him to follow her with a demanding, "Come along, Holmes."

Curiosity piqued, Sherlock goes without hesitating, and follows Jane down a deserted alley behind a Mediterranean fusion restaurant smelling of chickpeas and sour dolmas. She looks around to make sure they are alone before revealing a can of spray paint from the plastic bag.

Michigan Yellow.

"What are you doing?" he asks honestly perplexed because surely, Jane of all people wouldn't —

She pops off the plastic cap and shakes the can vigourously, the _clack-clack_ of the pea inside echoing off the brick walls. She draws an obscene yellow circle, two dots, and a mouth to represent a smiley face and steps back to admire her handy work.

"There."

Sherlock looks between it and her in stunned silence, a grin slowly breaking out on his face. "Jane Watson. Did you just deface public property?"

"I did. Yes. I figured I better properly earn that ASBO I got."

"You could get another one, and this time it would most definitely be your fault," he says touching the tip of his finger to the already dripping edge of the cooked smile.

"Ha, only if I get caught. Besides it would be worth it," she shrugs.

"In what way?"

"It made you smile," she replies simply, and he looks at her just then, surprised.

She looks back, her eyes soft, and her smile fond but before he can think of anything more to say she tosses the can of paint at him which he catches deftly.

"Now you."

He smirks down at the paint in his hand and shakes it once more for good measure before writing

_MH_

_CAKE_

_4EVER_

which has Jane in hysterics encouraging him to get completely carried away by drawing a large soppy heart around the declaration just to hear her laugh even more. She snatches it back and writes:

_FOR A GOOD TIME CALL 020 7946 0558_

"Is that…Anderson's phone number?" Sherlock asks. She answers him with a morally dubious gleam in her eye and hands the paint can back. "You are truly diabolical. I'm impressed," he says and lines up the nozzle.

_WILKES IS A TWAT_

"Oh god. I almost forgot about that guy. A twat, huh?" she chuckles.

"Well…I figured 'closeted homosexual with a Napoleon complex' was too long of a phrase. This gets the point across nicely. You seem rather fond of the colloquialism," he says.

She shakes her head positively beaming at him. "Wait how much did he end up paying you anyway?"

"Twenty."

"Twenty? As in…?"

"Thousand," he says, and Jane sputters for a moment before recovering.

"Right."

"Hungry?" he asks.

"You're paying," she says and they make their way back to the street grinning at one another from ear to ear.

* * *

**Hopefully Unnecessary Disclaimer: The number used for the purpose of this chapter is entirely fictitious. Please do not now or ever attempt to "call for a good time." (I mean...it's Anderson. *shudders*)**


	21. Not That Again

_**Sherlock, the sun, and GHB? (idon'teven-summaries are hard.)**_

**Tee hee a little short one. I wanted to write a loopy Sherlock and this is what I came up with. Hope you guys like it!**

**In conjunction with the chapter 'Bang' in part five of the series.**

* * *

**Not That Again**

Sherlock sits under the surprisingly accurate representation of a papier mache Saturn and frowns as the world tilts alarmingly on its axis.

"Hey? Sherlock?" Jane says, her warm hands framing his face and getting him to look at her. He tears his eyes from the gymnasium ceiling and tries to focus on her. (Double vision. Probably not good.)

"Hmm?" he responds, blinking through the haze.

"How are you feeling?"

"Where is Martinez?" he answers, looking around blearily.

Jane's face darkens and she looks over her shoulder at the dark and very unconscious lump of one Albert Martinez, the serial rapist targeting young women at the SouthwarkCharterSchool. "He's been taken care of."

At that moment, Lestrade and his men come barging into the gym ready to secure the area and neutralise the threat. Which was rather a moot point now, and Sherlock can't help but give Jane a cooked smile.

"_Moot,"_ he says precisely, emphasisng the _t_ at the end of the word and decides he likes how it sounds, so he says it again. And again.

"Right," Jane says, concern fretting her brow, and feels for the pulse in his neck. Her hands are soft, and he tips his head back to the ceiling again to give her better access. The replica of Saturn spins lightly on its wire, the off-kilter rings wobbling and making him dizzy. He lists to the side, and Jane steadies him, firmly anchoring him to solid ground. "Woah, I've got you."

"Is he all right?" Lestrade asks jogging over to them, leaving Sergeant Donovan to handle the suspect.

"He was drugged. Some GHB cocktail," she says and hands him the syringe for evidence. "Martinez wasn't able to administer the full dose so there should be plenty in there to incriminate him. I think Sherlock will be okay, I just need to get him home."

"Did you need a ride?" Lestrade asks, and Sherlock's head snaps up to him. He tries to maintain his dignity through another wave of vertigo.

"No! Not in a police car," he says.

"All right, relax. I'll be by tomorrow to get both of your statements, so you better rest up Sherlock," he says and makes his way over to Martinez who is awake now and talking rapidly in Spanish. The clash of the unfamiliar language swirls in his head, his mind attempting to tear apart the well known phrases and stitch them back together with meaning. (He knows Spanish. He can speak it fluently, but right now nothing is making sense and it makes him nauseous.)

"Can you stand?" Jane asks him, and the cadence of her voice is like a balm to his battered eardrums.

"Give me a moment," he says and bows his head. "M'hot, Jane," he mumbles into his chest.

Gently, Jane cups his jaw and eases his head up again. He is able to make out the gold flecks in her irises just before she presses her lips to his forehead. She leaves her mouth there for a few moments, and draws back finally biting her lip.

"You have a bit of a fever," she says and checks the pulse in his wrist. "It's not bad though, probably around 38.2."

"How did you get that?" Sherlock asks peering into her face. The place where her lips touched his forehead tingles slightly making him feel warmer still.

"Old trick," she smiles. "Whenever I didn't have a thermometer, which was quite often, I would use my lips to gauge."

"Oh yes, of course. Lips have a high concentration of receptor cells making them extremely sensitive to heat or cold," he recites by rote.

"It's good to see you're not completely out of it," Jane says and helps lever him to his feet. His knees nearly buckle, but her arm is around his waist holding him upright. "I've got you."

"You said that already," Sherlock says, gripping onto her shoulders and he tries to get his legs to cooperate.

"Sorry if I'm repeating myself. I know you hate it," Jane grumbles and turns him to face her.

"No, no it's…it's not that, but you do, don't you ?" he says holding on to her upper arms.

"I do what, Sherlock?" she asks softly. Her fingers come up and carefully inspect the bruise blooming on his jaw.

"You have me," he says, and he can't keep the sudden giddy grin off of his face. He feels light all over, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

She looks at him just then with a sad smile, something akin to longing dancing in her eyes before she expertly shutters it away. He swallows hard, his own smile fading.

"You do, don't you?" he asks. "Because I have you. You're mine, Jane, you know this right?"

"Sherlock — you're not feeling well —"

"I feel _fine,"_ he says grasping her even tighter to prove his point. (Better than fine. She had to see that.) "I'm _clear,_ Jane. So clear." He pulls her closer. She stiffens and looks around, but the officers at NSY aren't paying attention. He ducks his head, his lips hovering close to hers.

"Sherlock…" she whispers, her eyes fluttering closed. "You don't want to do this."

"I do," he insists. He breathes deep and the scent of her is enough to make him dizzy. In fact…

"Woah!" Jane says and grabs him around the waist again as he tips forward. Their foreheads bang together, and Sherlock can't stop the somewhat hysterical bubble of laughter from leaving his throat. "You are ridiculous," Jane says with mock exasperation.

"Yes, but you love me," Sherlock says swaying on his feet. He tips his head to the ceiling again and scowls. "What's that?" he asks indicating the large yellow ball at the center of the Solar System replica that had been mocking him.

"Wha — what?" Jane says looking entirely ill-footed. He doesn't understand why she's suddenly distressed but before he can deduce she says, "…the sun? That's the sun, Sherlock."

"No it isn't," he says looking back at the model. "It's can't be. It's in the wrong place."

Jane looks at him, and finally breaks out into a little giggle. Sherlock doesn't know what he said, but whatever it was he's glad for it. It's wrong if Jane's upset. She should be happy always. He tells her as much.

"All right," she says and helps him to the door. "It's time we get you home, you great pillock."


	22. Risotto

_**Jane...can't cook. But Sherlock can. Or: In which Sherlock wears an apron.**_

**AN: Here we are! I really love this chapter. It makes me feel all gooey inside. I hope you all like it. There is like hella domestic fluff in this chapter. Just warning you. Get your insulin.**

**In conjunction with the chapter 'Bang' in part five of this series.**

* * *

**Risotto**

Sherlock was laughing at her.

Not his usual snide chuckle. Oh no. He was full out gasping, clutching his sides, and holding himself up by the counter, _laughing._

It was such a boisterous laugh, so wild and free compared to his familiar self-contained rumble. It was higher in pitch too, and a bit wheezy. It was because of this delightful discovery that Jane was fighting her own giggling despite how irritated she was at him.

"It's not _funny,_ Sherlock," she says, dumping the curdled contents of the stock pot into the sink.

"You burnt the _soup,_ Jane! The _soup!"_

"Yes I know. I forgot to stir — will you cut it out!" Jane says flicking a towel at him.

"Soup is _wet._ Surely you see what's wrong with this picture? You've managed to somehow circumvent the laws of matter."

"Well I got a bit distracted by the honey in my hair," she protests and begins scrubbing the black layer of crud stuck to the bottom of the pot. She wrinkles her nose. It was a cream based soup, and she only stepped away for a second, honestly —

"Honey? Why were you using honey for potato and leek soup?" he asks.

"Hm? Oh it wasn't for the soup. I don't know how it ended up in my hair, actually. On second thought, I'm not even sure it was honey," she says bemusedly and this launches Sherlock off into another bout of hysterics. "It's your bloody fault, you know," she says jabbing the scrub brush at him for emphasis.

"How so?" Sherlock says, finally catching his breath, amusement crinkling the corners of his bright eyes making him look years younger and care-free.

"I warned you I couldn't cook, but you insisted I come up with something since you bought _five sacks_ of potatoes and only needed to use one for that bloody experiment."

"I thought given your frugal nature you wouldn't want to waste perfectly good food," Sherlock says.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but it's too late for that," she says morosely looking at the mushy potatoes in the sink.

"Didn't anyone teach you how to cook? You know, your mother perhaps?"

Jane looks at him startled for a moment. Her mother was definitely not the type to bond with her over cooking. Half the time they couldn't even be in the same room with one another without fighting, let alone a room filled with _knives._ She didn't know, but that just seemed to be asking for trouble.

"Is this another one of those things you think I should know because I'm a girl?" she deflects.

Sherlock, in an uncharacteristically playful mood, grins and winks at her. He gets a knowing gleam in his eye and sweeps around in a flurry of frenetic energy.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he calls and jaunts down the stairs leaving Jane in the kitchen thoroughly confused.

A moment later he bounds back into their flat, and it's Jane's turn to double over in laughter.

"Is that Mrs. Hudson's?" Jane guffaws. She can't resist coming over to tug at the ruffles edging the ridiculous flowery apron hanging from Sherlock's neck. He looks scandalised and smoothes a hand down his front.

"I don't want to get my shirt dirty," he says, imperious. She snorts, but will have to admit, it wouldn't do to _besmirch_ the fine cobalt blue silk. Bloody fashion model with his expensive clothes.

"Turn around, you daft git," she says and sets about trying the apron around his waist while he unbuttons his cuffs and begins rolling up his sleeves. "So what is all this about? Are you really going to cook?"

"Of course. We have to eat at some point," he says and pulls out some pots and pans along with the ingredients he garnered from Mrs. Hudson.

Jane arches a sceptical eyebrow. "'We?' You're eating too?"

"I always eat what I cook," he says roguishly. Then, like a miniature tornado of culinary ingenuity, he whirls about the kitchen turning on the cooktop, dropping what Jane thinks is a ridiculous amount of butter in a sauce pan, and cutting open the bag of rice with a (hopefully clean) scalpel. He tosses her a wooden spoon without looking and commands: "Stir. Don't stop lest you burn something else."

"Bossy," she says, but stirs the melting butter in the sauce pan as Sherlock commences to cut up an onion. He adds and some minced garlic to the mix, and throws the contents along with the rice into the sauce pan with the type of lackadaisical panache only he can manage.

"Keep stirring. I need to find some wine," he says rubbing his hands together in glee as he takes off in the direction of his bedroom of all places in search of said wine. Jane huffs a breath out of her mouth causing her fringe to fly up, and takes to her task, stirring clockwise for a bit before switching to anti-clockwise a moment later.

"Where did you learn to cook, anyway?" Jane calls down the hall.

"I taught myself," he says coming back to the kitchen, a bottle in hand. "Once you understand the fundamentals, it's simple chemistry in the end." He uncorks the bottle and pours a liberal amount into the pan, taking over the stirring. Jane picks up the wine and nearly has a heart attack.

"Sherlock! This wine is over two thousand pounds!" She didn't know much about wine, but she recognised the brand immediately. Her sister Harry was what some would call…a wine enthusiast, and her favourites where absurdly expensive wines from obscure places like the French country-side and what have you.

"Is it?" he says vaguely. He pours a ladle of chicken stock into the rice and stirs manically.

"Where did you get it?"

"My closet."

"No I mean…before that."

"Oh. It was a gift from someone, can't remember his name. He was a vineyard proprietor, and I managed to stop his brother from taking the business right out from under him. I've never had a reason to open it until now."

"And you kept it in your closet," Jane says sadly, shaking her head. She pulls out two wine glasses and pours them some before clearing a space at the table. She comes back over and leans against the counter, watching as Sherlock continues to add stock to the rice in increments. After a few more ladles-full, he brings the spoon up to his lips and blows away the steam.

Carefully, he holds it up to her mouth, a hand cupped under in case he spills, and in a low velvet voice he says:

_"Taste."_

A small shiver traces down Jane's spine, and she takes the spoon between her lips, allowing the buttery risotto to melt on her tongue. It's sinfully delicious, and she's not sure, but she thinks she makes some type of embarrassing orgasmic-like noise in the back of her throat, but at the same time she could hardly be arsed to care. My god, it was good.

"_How_ can you say eating is boring after _that?"_ Jane exclaims, and Sherlock goes back to stirring, almost sheepishly.

"It is," he says not meeting her eyes. "Usually."

"But you can cook! I mean, _really_ cook! The whole, bachelor thing you've got going on it quite a ruse."

"It's just _chemistry,_ Jane. Besides, cooking has been rather pointless up until now."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock frowns a little, focussing intently on the wooden spoon as it carves its way through the creamy risotto back and forth, back and forth, leaving little figure eights in its wake. Finally, with a rueful half-shrug he says,

"I've never had anyone to cook for."

The simple statement startles Jane, and an unexpected sadness wells up within her causing her to swallow around a sudden lump in her throat. It's rare that she is reminded of the depths of Sherlock's loneliness, but when moments like this do surface, she is left struggling to reconcile how it came to be that he was alone for so long. Maybe she really is different like Mycroft seems to think, because she apparently doesn't see what everybody else sees when they look at him.

Where people see arrogance, she sees the fiery passion behind the cool calculated logic.

Where people see him as a freak, she sees only brilliance. Blinding brilliance.

And where people see his callousness, she only sees a heart that has been scarred too many times to count.

A heart she wants to hold and protect with her bare hands.

"Well you do now," Jane says resolutely after a minute. "Now set the table. I'm going to go fetch Mrs. Hudson."

In that moment, over a steaming pot of risotto in the middle of their funny little flat in Central London, Jane vows that Sherlock will never be alone again.

Not if she can help it.


End file.
